Water and Sky
by Caleigho Meer
Summary: The backstory of the storm, briefly mentioned in Pirates 2
1. Chapter 1

Water and Sky....

There was a curling in his gut that he did not like, a vague twinge of warning that seeped through his bones and made him halt midway out on the water. Jack drew in a measured breath, glanced down at the placid serenity of the quiet azure below the Pearl's hull. He hissed when he heard the deep groan of her planks,  
felt the entire ship shudder beneith his boot heels as if afraid. Putting a palm against the dark wood, he cocked an ear, as if listening to the Pearl as she rocked upward on a wave.

"Cap'n?" Gibbs' brow was furrowed in confusion, as he watched Jack give him a glittering grin, and then land back on deck, lithe as a cat. The old man squinted as he held out the spy-glass to Jack, warily.

"What is it?"

Jack did not answer the question, only raised the spyglass over the vast expanse of the sea, and held it aloft, cursing under his breath, and muttering to himself. Gibbs scowled when he saw Jack's bone deep flinch as he abruptly halted, the spy glass fixed like a target over an empty ocean.

"Bloody Norrington."

The words were almost purred as Jack fluttered a hand in the air, beckoning. Gibbs grunted as he took the spy glass, peered through it. Gliding over the waters, sails unfurling, Gibbs swallowed hard when he saw the warship's speed, and the bright uniforms of the "all the King's men".

Jack only smirked sadly at the old man's lurch, clapped a hand over his shoulder. "'S about time that the good Commodore grace us with his presence, ai? "

Gibbs, squat as a bulldog, was lithe on his feet as he rose from the railing, and silently offered Jack his well-worn flask. Jack gave him a gold-glinted smile, good-naturedly clapped his shoulder, waved it away. "'S going to take more than that rather minute amount of liquid courage to lubricate an escape, mate. But I thank ye anyway." Gibbs took back the flask, raised an eyebrow in astonishment. "Cap'n?" His gruff inquiry was answered by Jack's finger raised to the far-reaching horizon, starboard. Gibbs shrugged at the water and sky, seeing nothing amiss but an eerie stillness. "'S a rather large and unnerving storm brewing, that promises to be quite unpleasant." Jack cocked his head, turned to look at Gibbs over his shoulder.

"Rouse the crew, Mr. Gibbs. Between bloody Norrington and the storm...I don't favor the Pearl being caught between that marriage of heaven and heck, do you?"

Gibbs squinted at the placid sky. "Jack? There's nary a cloud, Cap'n How can-" Jack impatiently jabbed a thumb at the horizon, swept his arm over to the ominous sails that were inching closer of Norrington's ship. "Gibbs? Have ye ever heard of the calm before the storm? *That* is it." Jack waved a vague hand over the azure haze.

"Now, if, for your own irrational gratification, and or leisurely wish for an early demise, you may take this as your invitation to go for a rather long swim." Jack's tone went from mocking to deadly as he leaped down from the railing.

"Mr. Gibbs, all flippancy aside? Rouse the crew, and tell them to lash down whatever can be tied. Sails at the full, too. I don't want the King's Finest to see anything of my lady but a parting kiss." Jack affectionately caressed the black wood beneith his bejeweled hand. The old man nodded, grimly, grunted to his feet, and bellowed out a stream of orders, laced with profanity and puntuated by swigs of rum. Jack could not help but fight a smirk of triumph as they admirably slid into co-hesion, each man gripping rope, wheel, sail or tack line with a disapline that would normally be driven on by lash and threat. Jack scowled at the branded letter at his wrist, adjusted the leather bindings to conceal it. Of all the bloody labels the good and proper may have for him...the cruelty he had seen on some other ships, and at the hands of the righteous was a bitter lesson learned. He ran a considering hand over his beads, letting an idle finger caress the wooden clink as he scowled at the horizon, in rare, pensive worry.

The Pearl groaned beneath his bootheels, the water unexpectedly pitching her hull high on a vicious wave.  
Jack grimaced at the ominous sound. "Something wicked and very wet this way comes. Gentlemen! Batten down the hatches, and tie the cargo sharp!"

_____________________________________________________

Norrington only offered a cool, indifferent nod to the blathering announcement from the cabin boy's awed words. The cabin boy was little more than an uneducated idiot, wide-eyed and drunk on the wonders of the water, a thin, dark-eyed waif yet to shave. Norrington's towering height and regal, prim white wig had almost stupidified the boy to the point of stammering. "A...pirate ship, sir. A real pirate ship?"

Norrington gazed at the dark ship, just a shadow and a ghost over the waters for a considering moment, before allowing the grim words to slide out through his clenched teeth, "So it would seem." Norrington dismissed the boy with a curt nod to summon his men, his eyes never wavering from their cold gaze over the churning sea.

The Pearl. She seemed made of storm, and not wood, her dark sails cloaked in the shadows of the gathering clouds. Norrington did not indulge in fantasy, did not cater to delusions that the dim-witted enslaved to drink might spout at one of their tasteless gatherings. He did not gaze down into the ocean's depths and flinch at the thought of a mermaid. But to see that black ship, with her mad captain emerging unscathed from the abyss one too many times was enough to make him at least raise an eyebrow. He was certain that her rum-soaked, pock-ridden captain had to have charmed the devil to keep his ship. Sighing, Norrington stared upward at the sky, and noted with a frown of concern the stillness, and the heavy waiting that seemed so odd, as if the world had taken one collective breath and just stopped. He shuddered at the thought, choked it down with self-protective rationality.

Norrington stood stiffly and politely acknowledged the bowing lines of men who were perfectly at attention and waiting for orders. Norrington's heart swelled. They were fine men, disaplined, efficient, able, and willing to serve under him without question. Norrington had proven himself to be a fair, if impartial leader, and well-regarded. His men rewarded his attempts to be just by their unflinching obedience. With his sea-grey eyes narrowed and growing colder, Norrington spoke with his voice polite, chilled, and abrupt, "Gentlemen, it seems that Jack Sparrow had proven it necessary to alert us to his presence. While I have no doubt that his drinking and carousing has inhabited his reason, I cannot overstate the fact that he is still a foe worthy of the watching. The Pearl has been lurking in the King's waters and terrorizing far too many of the good citizens of the Crown for far too long. I think it high time that we show Mr. Sparrow and his crew of miscreants what a show of good English law and order can do. To your stations, men. No quarter, and no mercy. Send the Pearl to the depths!"

With those deadly words spoken with casual disregard, Norrington did not flinch with the loud pop of cloth as the ship's sails were unfurled and soon arching into the wind. The huge ship was soon gliding over the waters with the speed of the wind snatching the distance between the pirates. The wheels of the long guns were already rolling across the deck as men scrambled to ready the powder. The bright, betraying arch of cerilian hung heavy and as the sails billowed, and soon, the ship was gliding like a seabird over the water. Norrington smiled. The Caliopie was indeed a behemoth, a newly commissioned warship with heavy masts, and enough firepower aboard to make up for the lack of manunverability in the shallows. She was a grand lady, indeed, stately on the water, and drawfing the Pearl. Norrington smirked when he imagined Jack Sparrow's calculating squirm when he lay eyes upon his newest adversary.

Jack stared uneasily as the Caliopie glided into full, arogant view and scowled when the colors were hoisted. Tilting his head to the side, he flew up the deck and gripped the tackline with shaking fingers, heels rising from the railing until only his boot's tips remained.  
Gibb's eyes buldged to see his captain nearly horizontal with the water. He heard Jack cuss, spit into the water, and hiss,

"Bloody Norrington.'' 


	2. The Gathering Storm

The sudden pop of a sail meeting the violent wind was as loud as a pistol shot, and Norrington flinched at the unexpected noise inspite of himself.

The sails were unfurled, the Caliope was chewing water and distance like a beast, the wind was high and favorable. Norrington could not help

the bright little smirk that briefly lit his lips as the Pearl slowly lurched away. The dark ship was still some distance away, not quite within in range

of the cannons, but the wind was against her. The Pearl only bobbed in the water, like a demented gull, almost as if waiting for the Caliope.

Unnerved, Norrington gave orders for the men to prepare the long guns, but keep a fair distance from the Pearl's retalitory fire. From that miserable pace

the black ship was making, he could afford to wait and see the nature of return fire, if there was going to be any.

Norrington scowled at the wind's direction, noted uneasily how fierce it was already rising. Clasping his hands behind his back, he strode upward to the deck, and grimly surveyed the Pearl's progress through the spy-glass. He chuckled wryly to see that there was none.

Jack felt the thrill of fear in his veins when he saw how still the black sails were. It was as if the ship has collided with an unseen wall, and was held in the

grip of hell as he impatiently waved Gibbs away from her steerage. He snarled out the order for the sails to "catch the wind before the King's finest catch

us, you filthy cod-droppings!" Gibbs downed a long, steadying drought from his flask, and quickly joined the efforts to loosen the lines and

catch the wind's swell before the Caliope could come into shooting range. Men scrambled, cursed, the lines were untangled, the sails draped, full and waiting and watched, helplessly as the Pearl slowly crawled in time with the wind, and gained a pitiful amount of speed away from her pursuer.

Jack swallowed hard at the realization that there wasn't enough time or distance at the Pearl's current pace to avoid a battle.

His eyes narrowed at the darkening sky, the gathering clouds that were taking on an ominous shade of black. The water writhed at the Pearl's rudder

as if in pain, convulsing and undulating in ever more erratic swells. Jack nearly yelped in suprise when the entire deck plunged downward and then

rocked upward, unsteadily.

The Pearl floundered over the waves, turning ever so slowly as her Captain gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckles and nearly broke bones

trying to force the ship to ride in the direction of the wind. It was a miserable, aching wait as the Pearl groaned in time to Jack's grunts,and fought

both the ill-tide and the wind's direction. Her sails were slack, fluttering briefly, but limp, the mast trembled, her deck groaned in warning. Jack knew the Good Lord above wept over the ocean, as the squall about his ship hissed against the aloft sails, and the bow plunged deeper into the rising waves.

And, then, the sky fell. The erratic tilt of the Pearl's deck, the fierce battle to keep her afloat, the searing, drenching walls of water was disorienting.

The sky and the sea had both turned to glass, then grey, and there was so much water falling around them all, it was as if the sky and sea were reversed.

The rain was naught but a hymn of wet, and mystery, and the silver sea that churned beneith the bow seemed to cradle the Pearl to sleep. And his dark lady answered, her hull rising knife-like over the water, only to be plunged ever closer to the depths.

They heard nothing, but the rage of the squall, the bright arch of sea foam, the white flash of sea-birds as they screamed and spiraled higher upon the wind. The Pearl fought the wave and the storm lash, rising high and plunging deeper and deeper into the churning waves. Her prow shuddered, her tacklines trembled with the strain, her sails swelled open, obsidian, embracing the howling winds and clawing her way to staying upright. The ocean roared back in all its fury.

And the hurricane roared on. It was only in looking back at the terrible events that had happened, that Norrington could honestly swear, by God, and crown, that it was possible

for such a storm to erupt so fiercely. He watched the white clouds gathering, swelling to bursting, smelled that eerie stench of rain over water as the

wind went from a hiss to a howl. The clouds, bloated with the weight of the fury, spewed forth the deluge from the sky, as the ocean roared back

with her own writhing currents.

Water and sky were embroiled in battle, the sky pouring down, and the water rising upward. The two ships were caught between the warring

elements, and Norrington could only watch for a tortured moment as the Caliopie heeded the wind, and was suddenly driven onward towards the

gathering storm.

Vaguely, through dark water and storm-bloated clouds, the Calliope's white sails were unfurled like wings against the hell around them, as Norrington felt the ship buck like an enraged stallion. The waves grew teeth, rose higher over the stern, threatening to devour the battered ship. A tackline snapped, the pop of rope and the dismayed scream of the officer holding it was shrill in his ears as the man was suddenly consumed by the silent hunger of water as the wave dribbled back to the sea. That man did not even have time to scream. Norrington wiped the slick hair from his eyes, cursed under his breath.


	3. The Rage of the Deep

The Rage of the Deep-

Norrington clapped a hand over his hat when the wind seared against his scalp, and nearly toppled from the sudden gust. He watched in dismay as men scrambled on deck to haul the sails back into obedience. The sails, in the grip of the fierce wind, flared open and caught the full fury of the storm.

The ropes that tacked them down went soaring high, while the crew worked in frantic clusters to lash the riggings back down.

It was as if they were battling the serpentine beasts of folklore, rather than ordinary rope. Gillette had caught hold of one, grit his teeth, and flung himself backwards, his heels sliding over the slick wood, before he was tossed upward from a sudden gust. Norrington only had time to hear his yelp of dismay,before the soldier was slammed back down onto the deck, his whole body landing on his outstretched arm. Norrington heard the snap of bone, that hissed wince, and saw Gillette curl his arm protectively against his side while clinging for dear life to the rope with his other hand. The Callopie suddenly pitched downward, taking Gillette down with her. With a wild cry, Norrington exploded into motion, hauled Gillette away from the water lapping at his bootheels. Both men were pulled to safety by several hands. Norrington watched as Gillette went pale and pinched from the blinding pain of the shattered arm when he was moved.

"I'm.....sorry, sir. I'm so sorry." Gillette choked out as he shivered in misery, the wet smearing the flush of humilation on his cheeks. Norrington only grimaced at the crooked angle of Gillette's arm, and gave the sharp order for him to be taken below, but not before putting a gentle palm on Gillette's shoulder,and giving him a rare, but reassuring smile. "You are a valient member of this crew, Gillette, but you would do me far more good below recovering than risking permanent damage to that arm."

Norrington dismissed him with a sharp salute, as Gillette awkwardly touched his good hand to his forehead in answer. Norrington watched as Gillette was escorted below, his good arm draped over another soldier's neck as they hobbled away. He could not stop the gut-wrenching guilt when Gillette raised a longing look back at the deck.

Norrington cursed again, as he glared at the sky, the hungry abyss roaring so high, and the churning deep below his suddenly frail ship. He gave a curt order for a spy glass, and was presented one hastily, with a bow. Raising it high, he swiveled around to see if he could catch sight of the Pearl.

It was viciously obvious that the Pearl had caught the bad side of the wind, both from her stagnating pace against the waves, and the dangerous downward slide her mast was doing as she pitched and rolled, but only bobbled upward after straining the one open sail against the gale.

The dark ship was in range of the cannons, her sails flaccid as broken wings, her hull rising higher and falling deeper into the chaos. Norrington held his breath when a wave crested, and broke over the side of the Pearl, tilting the ship nearly horizontal with the water. He cursed when the Pearl rocked back upright, but was heartened to see that the ship was still unable to evade any return fire. Indeed, if the storm kept its force against her, the Pearl would be sunk to the depths without any aid from the Royal Navy.

Norrington grimaced as he was pelted again by the rain. The powder would be sopping wet and useless if they didn't use it soon. Norrington snarled out the order for the cannons to be loaded.

_Meanwhile, aboard the Pearl-_

Hell had erupted, and the world was ending, not from fire, not in ice, but from the same primordal deluge that had claimed it once before. The Pearl bucked against another crushing wave, tilting erratically, rising higher, and slamming back down further as the torrent grew from rain to solid sheets. The last crest of wave had sent the Pearl shuddering as if from a blow, and Jack winced in pain when he heard her hull groaning beneith him. He felt that hit bone-deep.

The deck was slimed with water, the ocean's grasp sliding ever closer to taking her down, and Jack could only grunt and strain to steer her through the malstrom. Coils of water undilated beneith the hull, rolling into mountain and valley as the Pearl fought a massive swell, and edged ever deeper into the waves. Somewhere from his side, he heard Gibbs' grunt, as the old man gripped the line and bellowed over the roar of water and wind.

"Orders, Capn?!" Gibbs watched as Jack fought the wheel, again, his entire frame quivering from the effort to keep upright from the strain. Jack slumped against the wheel, but forced his glittering teeth into a smirk. "Stay dry." Gibbs felt his bejeweled hand give him a friendly slap as Jack pulled his sopping black hair from his haggard face.

"I've never come across a storm like this in all me bloody life, Gibbs. Tis truly something of decidedly _un-_biblical proportions, would ye not say?" Jack's cadence was soft and bitter as he grunted again against the wheel. Gibbs tucked a shoulder underneith a spoke, and together, the men twisted it into submission for the moment. Jack only breathed a sigh of, "thank you," as the smile melted in the rain, to grim acceptance.

" Mr. Gibbs, I want every man tethered to the ship and at the ready for a _good_ wind. Sailors at the mast, sails sharp." Gibbs's forehead crinkled as he waved a vague hand over the water. "Cap'n, what about Commodore Norrington?"

Jack's eyebrow arched, as he primly narrowed his eyes. "_Bloody_ Norrington, Mr. Gibbs. When hence and hereforth ye have to speak the name of that brocaded ponce parading about here to sink my Pearl, do so out of only dire, incessent need, and then, only refer to that sea-scab as _Bloody_ Norrington."

Gibbs open and closed his mouth in confusion at the tirade. "Cap'n, ye know better than to use those fancy words 'round me. What do ye want done with _Bloody_ Norrington, then?"

Jack tilted his head, the bright smirk winking out from his dark beard. "Mister Gibbs, there hasn't been a torture invented aside from my own daft ideas as to what exactly would partake if I were to do exactly what I wished with him. But, aside from that ship dogging the Pearl, he's not the threat. _That_ is."

He jabbed a finger upward to the sky. "But, the current malestrom may yet be the deliverance we so desperately crave at the moment, aye?"

"Cap'n?" Gibbs was agog when Jack licked a finger,held it aloft and cocked his head, as he muttered under his breath. Sliding his eyes to Gibbs he gave him a wicked, calculating smirk. "Mr. Gibbs, I want the Pearl's sails at the full, into the hurricane."

Gibb's face melted into shock, as he stammered, "Jack? We want to _sail _out of the grasp of this monsterous wind, not deeper to."

Jack groaned, as he braced a shoulder against the steerage. "Aye, we want to sail out of it, and the crew has made several noble attempts to do that."

Jack sighed, as he tilted his head to meet Gibb's eyes. "And we can't bloody do it, Gibbs. The wind and the tide are against us, and sitting here will only result in graciously allowing Norrington to blast a few holes into the Pearl before she sinks to the depths, and we either all drown or hang. Sailing further in might lose that pounce, or not, but the Pearl's already taken a beating, and I don't want to risk her floundering within range of Navy cannons, do ye?"

Gibbs grunted at that. "But Jack? How do ye know that _Bloody_ Norrington isn't fighting the wind as fierce as we?"

Jack snorted at that. "Because his ship is moving closer, and the Pearl isn't moving further away."


	4. An Ill Wind

Jack could barely hear the snarls of dismay from the crew, barely felt the deluge that had soaked him to the skin or the bitter chill of the wet. Dark water had poured down over his face, hungry water lapped at his boot heels as he tottered back and forth from the ship's pitching in the tide. He winced each time he heard a plank groan, he felt bone-deep the Pearl's battered sides as she lurched valiently over the storm's wrath, and only gained a pitiful distance for her efforts.

His men were fighting, and losing their wet war with the erratic sails, as they flapped wildly, tore open, and faltered. The Pearl had caught the bad side of the wind, indeed. She was still battling the stormlash, and rose again after another wild tilt that nearly toppled Jack. The pirate grit his teeth, squinted upward at the sky, and smirked when the Pearl lurched atop the wave, and arched back down with the falling tide again.

"'S it, love. We'll keep fighting, but keep us floatin'."

The searing explosion of light happened so fast that he didn't even have time to shut his eyes, though he saw the red veins and the white heat. Jack smelled the tang of spent shot,the acrid smoke, and felt something aching and hot across his spine. Jack opened his eyes to find the splintered wood, and the gaping hole in the deck from the cannon ball, idly palmed a hand over his burned back and hissed at the sudden pain. Warily, Jack tilted his head to inspect the damage. His right sleeve was tattered, and the back of his shoulder was blackened, except for the slash of charred red of exposed flesh. Jack raised an eyebrow, and shrugged off the agony when he heard the tearing air, and saw the arc of fire from the sky. The cannonball's trail of light was followed by the sound of water as the cannonball in the malestrom, Gibbs came limping up the deck, a ragged cloth tied over a bloodied knee, and a white line of pain crossing his face when he saw Jack's shoulder.

"Mother's love, Jack! That shoulder-"

"Can wait, Mr. Gibbs." Jack waved a hand in dismissal, and gave Gibbs a forced grin. "Better injured than dead, and that is what we will be if we don't get out of this cannon fire."

Gibbs gestured helplessly upward to the sails, and Jack nodded, tersely, grit his teeth, slung both hands over the wheel with a grunt. Gibbs' eyebrows crept higher and higher over his forehead, as Jack tilted his head as if listening to the ship. A wicked smirk worked its way over his glittering teeth as he straightened with a wince, and waved Gibbs over. Gibbs hobbled over, placed uncertain palms over the spokes and was prepared to throw his body in the turning, as Jack hissed out, "Wait."

"For what? Jack-" Gibbs questioning was halted by Jack's wink. "Mr. Gibbs, if you please, I would appreciate greatly you assistance in the steering and otherwise propelling this most bueutific ship out of the range of the Navy cannons."

Gibbs only blinked in confusion as Jack suddenly hurled his body against the wheel, winced when the wounded shoulder was slammed against the wood and ignored it. "Mr. Gibbs! Turn the bloody wheel"  
Together, they forced the ship further into the wind, and Gibbs heard the hull-deep groaning of planks as the Pearl ground her way against the current and the storm. It felt like they were pushing a mountain up a mountain, as the men screamed and the cannon fired, and sky continued it scourging.

"Cap'n, this is madness! We can't-" Gibbs was halted by Jack's almost feral sneer as he clapped a forgiving hand on his shoulder, and whispered, "Mr. Gibbs, you may release her, now. She's got her wings, mate.  
My lady will fly."

And Jack bit back the wince as he forced himself to the mast again, with another wink to his terrified crew.  
The sudden rush of wind was almost angelic in its deliverance as the Pearl's flacid sails suddenly unfurled.  
It was as if the breath of God had lighted the dark, dripping cloth. The sails swelled open, and caught the force. Jack staggered at the sudden,grinding lurch as the Pearl heaved upward, pitched down, and almost shot forward through the waves.

And suddenly, they were flying.

Jack only ran a hand over her steerage, with a weary smile, before he kissed her soaked wood.  
"Thank you, my lady."

Meanwhile, on the Calliope....

Norrington's lip curled in pained astonishment as the Pearl glided away, the water in her wake mocking as the flip of a scorned woman's skirt. He bit back the unseemly curse from his breath, fought to keep his face serene and composed, though his eyes were narrow and glittering with distain. Few of the Navy men had enough restraint to keep their jaws from dropping in awe as the dark ship and her mad captain once again flouted the law of King and Crown...and escaped.

The dribble of rain, the hissing wind, the acrid smoke wafting in the air did little to penetrate that cloying, building noose of rage that had suddenly made breathing and not snarling so much more difficult for Norrington.

"Orders, sir?" Norrington flinched at the sudden sound of the uncertain officer as he cautiously dipped his head in a respectful bow. Norrington's jaw and fists were clinched, the sodden rain had sullied the pristine white of his wig and a tendril of dark hair had snaked out from beneith his hat.

The poor officer swallowed when Norrington regarded him silently, his eyes looking unhuman in the dull light of the storm. "I apologize for interrupting you, sir."

The contrite words were obligated and stammered out of fear as the officer bobbed his head again in sniveling appeasement. Norrington's scowl only deepened. "You did not interrupt me. At ease." The words were curt and bitten off as Norrington's searing eyes followed the trailing lines of water after the Pearl.  
"We will pursue the Pearl, and send all those desolute wretches to the depths or the noose." 


	5. A Bout of Madness

The lash of the storm had not abated, nor did the frantic pitching of the ship, but the Pearl rose higher than the waves and was soon gliding over the water. Despite the rest of the crew tottering around at her irratic tilts, Jack felt serene as a babe rocked to sleep. He lovingly put a palm to her deck, and caressed it.

His dark lady had once again been his angel of deliverance,and with the wings as her sails and the sea as her sky, she would soon be flying away from the range of the guns.

Mr. Gibbs squinted from the dribbles of sea water in his eyes, brushed back his hair, and turned to Jack.

Jack gave him a weary smile as he ran fingers over the mahogony wheel, and nodded. Softly, he smirked and gestured towards the deck. "Did I not tell you my lady could fly?"

Gibbs chuckled, shook his head, and indulged in a long, heady swallow from his flask before passing it to Jack. "Aye, Jack. She can fly, when she's a mind to. But, will she outfly them?" He waved a hand towards the gloaming dark behind them, and sneered at the white sails.

"Mr. Gibbs, observe, if you will, the unrefutable and irrevokable fact that the Pearl, is in fact, sailing over the water at a rapid rate, while Bloody Norrington's pretensious, bloated sniveling dinghy couldn't be moving any more slowly than if they were moving backwards...as it were." Jack's hands wove a pattern in the air, and he swayed with a cocky, feral grin. " 's obvious if you think about it, Mr. Gibbs."

Jack held his hat aloft in a high, mocking salute as he bowed with a flourish and a smirk, waving a hand in farewell to the floundering Calliope. The storm was still lashing the ships, but he could see that feral rage burning white in Norrington's eyes. Jack's smug laughter burbled away into disbelief and then silence when he saw the Calliope dock her sails, til they were nearly empty, and veer deeper into the raging wind. Norrington had apparently decided to give chase.

It was an act of desperation, or madness. Jack winced when he saw the prow of his enemy's ship pitch forward and nearly roll under again, but still, the Navy held her course, and she was clawing for purchase in the waves. Mr. Gibb's eyed the ship, his forehead crinkling in shock as he gaped at Jack.

"They're sailing aft to the deep!" Gibbs bellowed as Jack tilted his head at the ship, his dark eyes growing darker. "Tis madness." Jack whispered, sadly. "Tis nothing but sheer, bloody madness."

Jack was grim, and silent as he strode up the deck.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Not even the strict English disapline could stop the veneer of fear that ran through the Navy men as they

heard the curt orders from Norrington to sail on. The Calliope's pristine sails were drenched with the muck of storm's vomit, the battered deck was slimed, and three crewmen had already drowned. The sails were like funeral shrouds, the ship a rocking coffin flung to the mercy of the treacherous ocean.

When word had reached the wounded Gillette, he blanched white and nearly swooned from the sharp dip of the deck. He had been flung to the bed and landed on his broken arm. White pain seared through the bone like lightening, and he choked back the whimper with every bit of proper Navy restraint he could master at the moment.

He trembled from the shock, and managed not to cry out when he heard the unmistakable cadence of bootheels descending down to his little room. The door slid open after a polite knock and Gillette's permission to enter. Norrington stroed into the room, his back straight, and his hands clasped behind his back, though his wig was sopping wet and the fine brocade was dripping.

Gillette shivered in humilation, tried to draw himself upright to bow as his good arm touched his forehead in a respectful salute. Norrington scowled with concern when he saw the flinch of pain as Gillette flushed and dipped his head.

"Forgive me, sir, I cannot stand." Gillette's face flamed as he stared at the floor. Norrington sighed at that,

gave him a forgiving smile.

"I would not expect you to, Gillette. You are gravely injured and I would not have you aggrivating your wounds on something as foolish as a bow." Norrington drew himself up sternly, and shook his head.

"Gillette. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have always been a fine officer, and one worthy of my trust. The fact that you are injured in no way negates that." Norrington gave him a warm smile.

"How is your arm?" Gillette uneasily gestured towards his sling with his good arm, forced a polite smile.

"It's better, thank you, sir."

Norrington gave him a sharp nod, turned on his bootheel to exit the room. His hand was on the door when he heard Gillette's uncertain voice trailing after him.

"Sir?" Norrington turned over his shoulder, paused for Gillette to speak. Gillette lowered his eyes, suddenly absorbed with studying the odd pattern of wood on the wall, and swallowed hard.

Norrington's eyebrow arched upward, as he marched back over to the bed, concerned. Gillette was obviously at a loss as to where to begin whatever he had to say, floundering miserably.

"Sir, I've been told that you plan on pursuing the Black Pearl through this storm." Gillette's eyes slid into his own, and his lip worked pensively against his teeth. Swallowing hard, and gathering his courage, Gillette plunged on in one desperate, anguished spew..

"Sir, I've never questioned your orders, and you know I would sail with you to the ends of the earth, without reservation or doubt. You've proven yourself time and time again to be worthy of my trust."

Norrington blinked, languidly, as he studied Gillette, silently. Rising, he turned his back to him, and forced himself to ask the bitter question. "And you doubt my orders now?"

Gillette shuddered as if struck, and shook his head. "Sir, three men have already died in pursuit of the Pearl, and with this storm being what it is....I fear this is only the beginning."


	6. The Wounded

Author's note: I don't think it would be too much of a stretch to say that Norrington, at this point, is really,

really screwed. I also believe that in curse of the Black Pearl, he showed himself to have a very real concern

for the people under his charge, and had to be a fairly astute officer to navigate the seas, not to mention

taking on a whole ship full of undead pirates. In Dead Man's Chest, he was a treacherous, filthy drunk that

had no qualms about betrayal to get back the life he thought he was owed. The big, gaping question for

me, is what did norrington go through to become so corrupt? I'm hardly an export on maritime navigation

techniques, but, even I can see the foolishness of attempting to sail through a hurricane. I don't think that

Norrington would be so blinded by pride that he would risk the lives of his men to pursue the Pearl, so

something else had to have happened in that fateful voyage to break him down to the level that he sank

to...(no corny pun intended.) I hope to flesh out what in the next few chapters. Also... apologize for

inaccuracies in the realism of the story. I don't really know how realistic the chances of a ship hit with a

full-blown hurricane might be, but imagine, (key word, imagine!) the effect would be devastating. That

being said, on with the story.

"Only the beginning." The words hung, unspoken between them as Norrington forced his spine into a

straight, dismissing line, uneasily tucked a stray dark hair deeper into his hat. He pivoted sharply on his

boot heel, his eyes slid into dangerous contemplation as he faced Gillette.

The injured man was trembling, and pale, his fists working nervous little wrinkles into the blanket draped

about his knees. Navy man though he was, Gillette was still in his sodden dress coat. Norrington scowled at

that, gave an eyeroll to heaven as he stared Gillette down, with a raised eyebrow.

"Gillette. You are injured. I trust that you don't wish to add illness to your troubles?"

Gillette blanched at that, shook his head. "No, sir, I don't."

Norrington allowed a tolerant smile. "There is no need for propriety at the expense of your health. Why are

you not in drier clothes?"

Gillette's cheeks flamed again, unable to answer, as he bowed his head. Norrington was mildly amused to

hear the muttered apologies directed to the bedsheets. Norrington only shook his head.

"Gillette,I will be taking my leave now. I trust that you will use the time in my abscence to not only make

yourself a bit more comfortable, but to recover. That cannot be if you're sopping wet. This ship needs one of

it's best officers back on deck as soon as possible. I trust that you know that." Norrington's voice was softer

as he politely tipped his chin in farewell. "A speedy recovery to you, Gillette."

"Thank you, sir." Gillette's voice trailed behind Norrington as he shut the door and lingered, uneasily.

Norrington nearly toppled when the Calliopie's hull plunged downward. He staggered a few steps, gripping

the bulking to steady himself, and scowled at the shouts coming from above deck. Instinct coiled in his gut

as pride reared its rarely honored head.

He put his throbbing head between his weary fingers, tried to massage the ache away from the sudden pain

behind his eyes. He shook off the fatigue, the doubts, the fear with the ease that he brushed the muck away

from his brocade and dofted his hat after carefully weaving his hair back beneath the white wig. He worked

the regal mask back over his face, forced his lips into that grim line, tucked hands behind his back and

marched up the rocking steps, and into the full fury of the storm.  
Three men, dead on account of the squall. Three men, boys, really, one not old enough to shave, the other

two fresh-faced and made his heart ache, to think of the solemn funerals, the empty arms of

mothers, and loves and futures lost. He had no absolution for them, no tribute, no time to even do more

than say a prayer that Almighty God would grant them a clear path to heaven and its clouds, and not leave

their frail flesh in the flotsam of the sea. When they breached land again, when they were out of the squall,

at peace....he promised himself that he would perform the proper funerary rites and commit their memories

to the keeping of the deep. And he would give his personal reassurance to their weeping mothers that they

died valiantly. The question before him now was if those deaths were in vain.  
He was not cold, not indifferent. He just had no time for the weeping, and the gnashing of teeth. It would

not bring them back, it would not ease the sorrow, and if he shrank from his duty now, only more men

would be lost to the malestrom. Gritting his teeth, he strode back on the deck.

Three dead men. His eyes were blurred from something more than the pelting rain as he sighed again.  
Grimly, he asked for the spy glass, and curled his lip in agitated realization. The Pearl was a mocking, dark

speck on the churning waves, and the winds were carrying her further out of reach. The arms of the squall

were cradling her over the toss and pitch of the tides.

Norrington grimaced distastefully, bellowed out the order to dock the sails, and trim them to the lee of the

wind. He quelled the shiver of rage that ran through him, though he could not stop his fingers from sliding

into fists. He closed his eyes, drew in a cleansing breath, turned to face the dismay of his crew. A few of the

more disloyal shot him questioning glares as they sidled over to the sails, and tack lines.

Norrington shook his head, bowed it low, took in another breath, before he forced out the next words over

the howling winds.

"The Pearl is out of range of our guns, and our jurisdiction at the moment, gentlemen. I will not see a ship

full of fine, god-fearing at the bottom of the ocean chasing pirates....yet." He allowed the calculating smirk

to appear, and was heartened to see a few of them shudder. It was a thing to fear.

"We will pursue the Pearl under far more favorable conditions, and i will see Jack Sparrow hang. However,

that will not be possible if we ourselves...drown." The wry observation brought forth a smattering of chuckles

as he dipped his head in humble acknowledgement.

"As for the moment, break off pursuit, and sail her to the lee of the wind."

Meanwhile, on the Pearl...

Shouts of dismay, and then wonder were emerging from the huddled, shivering masses on the deck. The

man in the crow's nest shouted down the joyous news that the Calliope was dropping chase. Gibbs

chuckled, took a long swig of his flask, and promptly swatted Jack.

It was only meant as a show of camaraderie, a brotherly show of affection between pirates, of men who

faced hell together and emerged unscathed. Gibbs had smiled around his flask, held it aloft, and clapped

Jack with a heavy, friendly fist over his spine. He nearly spewed his grog at Jack's flinch of pain, and the

slick gore that made his knuckles scarlet. It was then he noticed the true cost of victory when he saw Jack's

hands clenching the wheel, the choked back cry, the trembling grip that kept him upright. Jack shuddered,

forced a grin. "Easy on me back, Gibbs. It seems I've caught a bit of the king's ire after all, eh?"

Gibbs was openly gaping as Jack slumped against the steerage, cautiously crept over. "Mother's love, Jack!  
how-" He was halted by Jack's hiss of his name as he gestured him waved away the question

with a grimace, swallowed hard. "Mr. gibbs, get me coat, and the stoutest flask of rum from below ye can

fetch."

Gibbs shook his head, anguished and uncertain as he saw Jack's bronze skin turn ashen. "For Land's sake,

Jack, ye be injured! Below deck is where ye should be, not-"

"Mister Gibbs." Jack braced his elbows against the wood, grunted as he straightened, and then turned to

look at Gibbs with those obsidion eyes. "Who am I?" He tilted his head, with the smirk crumbling as gibbs

only shook his head in bewilderment.

"Cap'n, What-"

"Aye, Captain. Captain. Jack. Sparrow." The words were bitten off, softly as Jack breathed heavily, and

turned to Gibbs. "Mr. Gibbs, ye can either take my direction as an order given from the captain to a

member of the crew...." Gibbs winced at that, as Jack bowed his head.

"Or ye can take as a most urgent request from a friend." Jack gestured vaguely over his shoulder, his eyes

growing even darker with pain. "Mr. Gibbs, you're hardly some simpering winch who faints at the sight of

blood. I'd expect a bit more than that from ye."

The old man narrowed his eyes, and snarled, "For Pete's sake, Jack, you're bleeding like ye been poked,

and paler than a salmon's gullet. ye hardly look like you can stand upright, and ye accuse me of fainting?"  
Jack snorted at that, and winked. "Aye, that may well be. However, in these most ingratious circumstances,

one can hardly expect any rest for the wicked, the weary, or the roguishly handsome, now can we?"  
He mockingly swirled a hand over his mustache. His cheer melted away when he drew in another measured

breath.

"Jack." It was almost a plea as Gibbs raised his bloodied hand high.

"Bloody hell, Gibbs, i'm alright!" Jack snapped, irritably, as he shifted with another wince. Jack heaved a

weary sigh at Gibbs's pointed look. Gibbs pursed his lip, and shook his head, muttering under his breath

something intelligible about ''pock-ridden, rum-soaked foolishness.' Jack heard his blathering continue

below, relieved that he could finally drop the false bravado, and see how injured he was.


	7. The Wounded II

He was unflinching as he continued to navigate the Pearl to the shallows, grateful for both the lulling wind, and the retreating Calliopie.

He was hunched over the wheel, draped across the Pearl's prow as if he were her beloved. The tremor in his hands hadn't stopped, any

more than the reign of fire mixed with salt water across his lacerated back. He had little time to truly heed the pain, or survey the damage

to his shredded shirt, but he had felt the splinters of wood dancing furiously over his back. He caught the brunt of the projectiles when the

cannonball had hit, he felt the blades of shattered deck and the muck of the ocean's vomit as it surged over him, and the blinding, blinding

pain when they had drawn their teeth and bit down bone deep. It hurt to move, it hurt to stay still, and from the invasive throb that rippled

everytime he moved his right shoulder, or the sharp agony when he shifted his left hip, he knew that there were shards of wood buried

deep in his back.

_At least two, if not more,_ Jack mused. The rainwater had slicked away some of the tattered remnants of his shirt, and the blood. With the

distractions of the storm, and merely surviving the night, Jack breathed a was not missing a limb, or

convulsing about the deck like a gutted fish, so his wounds could be safely ignored for the moment.

His lip curled in distaste as he finally, slowly straightened his bowed back from its injured slump, and wince at the bright flail of pain

that laced up his spine. Jack had to halt the movment with a grunt when the world started to tilt with something more than the erratic

sway of the Pearl. Slowly, slowly, he rose to his full height, grimacing as the material that cemented to the reopening wounds tore free.

Jack swore under his breath, he hadn't hurt that much since the flogging he had as a theiving youth, and even then, the burn of memory

was not enough to quell his instinct to sit down.

He had hardly meant to be as testy as a swatted gull to Gibbs, but that slap across his back, and that horror in Gibb's eyes as he

withdrew that bloodied hand...Jack swallowed hard.

Mercifully, the storm had slacked off, and he was free to finally view what had been done to him. He turned his head, carefully, and

stared down at his back. The blood-sullied linen shirt was slick with the rain, the dirty grey even more sullied by the dark blooms

of scarlet. His shoulder had caught the brunt of the wood, a jagged wound easily the size of his palm splintered the flesh, and

went bone-deep. His bronzed skin was oozing with sweat and the sea-muck, and blood, and he knew that there were several

splinters imbedded from his shoulder blade to the hip on his right side.

"Cap'n?" Jack turned to see Gibb's eyes narrowing as they glided down his back, and his jowls working into his teeth as he

shook his head. The old man sighed and slid the flask of rum into Jack's waiting hands. With a huff, he

fluffed the coat into the wind, and held it out, silently waiting. Jack only gave him a small, grateful smirk as he popped the

cork with his teeth and spewed it into the water. Hoisting it high, he gulped it down in one long swallow, before he handed the

nearly emptied flask back to Gibbs.

"Thanks, mate. Ye've no idea how much that was needed." Gibbs snorted at that, good-naturedly, but scowled again as

Jack took his jacket and shrugged it on with a wince over his wounds.

"Jack." The paternal grunt was laced with warning and concern as Gibbs pursed his lips and uneasily slid his hands to Jack's shoulders,

pulled the material in place.

"Cap'n, those wounds need tendin'."

Jack waved a tired hand in the air between them, forced a bright smirk that bordered on a grimace. "They're hardly noticable! Indeed, one would

think that I'm at the very verge of expiration, with the way that you're carrying on. Mr. Gibbs, they're nothing."

Gibbs tilted his head to the side, raised an eyebrow as he suddenly poked the bloodied shoulder. Jack's whole back spasmed as the unexpected flare of

pain nearly brought him to his knees. Grunting, Jack rounded on him like a wet cat, hissing. Gibb's smug moment of triumph ruined when he saw the bronze skin paling.

The wheel was slick beneath his shaking hands, the knuckles white, as Jack ground out, "Mr. Gibbs, I am bloody fine!"

Gibbs shook his head, bitterly. "Cap'n, yore much more bloody than fine at the moment. Those wounds need tendin'."

Jack's eyes went storm-dark as he drew himself up, to snarl out softly, "And the Pearl needs sailing, Mr. Gibbs."

It was useless bickering and humiliating admission, blathering ending in threats of Gibbs stringing Jack to the yardam and Jack cheerfully

answering that he'd maroon his first mate with no sea turtles, before Jack was finally bullied into submission.

The wind was finally slackening off, the Pearl was gaining steady speed, and Jack was seething as he relunctantly surrendered the wheel to Cotton. Gibbs

followed Jack through the gainway and into his quarters, dodging the doors that he flung open, and only offering a tolerant smile as Jack crossed his arms,

flounced downward into the chair. Warily, Jack watched Gibb's fretting search through the small quarters for the rudimentary supplies.

The old man set the needle, thread, flask of rum, and a fresh patch of linen on the wooden table, vinegar, a set of sheers he pilfered from a woman who left him with

a memory of lace and not much else.

Jack eyed them dubiously, raised a questioning eyebrow to Gibbs, who only shrugged in answer and hid the smirk behind a well-timed chug.

There was only a long, uneasy silence as Gibbs gave Jack a pointed look, started threading the needle. Jack sighed, and forced an uncertain cackle. "Ye intend to sew me up, Mate? Is all of this...medicinal detail entirely necessary?"

Gibbs set the needle down, and crossed his arms. "Now who be actin' like a whimperin' winch, Jack? Do you intend to go about with the ship's splinters in your back? I know ye love the Pearl, but having her wood in ye's not necessary, is it? 'Sides, Cap'n." Gibbs gave him a rueful shrug.

"Twon't do you any good to sew you up unless we get that wood _out." _Jack frowned at that, but slowly began to peel his sopping jacket off, and let it flop to the floor,

the linen shirt, he eased off over his back and flung the bloodied mess away in distaste.


	8. Death of the Calliopie

The Calliope continued her erratic pitching roll in time with the swell, her decks rising and falling ever deeper into the abysmal waters around her. The crew was shouting and scrambling about the deck like panicked rats as the tack lines continued their whip-like snapping and the sails were strained to the breaking point. The ship groaned, trembled, and Norrington felt her deep, deep shudder and the ominous sound of roaring water and splintering wood. Gritting his teeth, Norrington barked out an order to the nearest crew member, bade him go below and survey what damage might have occurred. The sky continued to fall in dark curtains, joining the sea in one yawning maw of black. Norrington snarled out the orders for the men to remain at their post, appointed Henley and Moore- two worthy men he trusted to remain stout in the face of all of this chaos- to walk the ship and report to him, and only him, what damage might have occurred and how many were dead or missing.

He ran a hand through his sopping hair, his fingers trembling with nerves and exhaustion, as he raised his eyes skyward. Mercifully, the wind had slackened in the last few hours and the hurricane was slowly hurling the last of its venom. Norrington could not stop the sigh of relief at that comforting thought.

Norrington scowled at the sea and the sky. The deluge had mercifully stopped, though the gray drizzle continued to pelt the miserably wet men. Night had fallen over the ocean, the only sound now the wash of the waves and the rain. The world had gone dark, great slats of clouds obscured what little bit of moon might have been visible and there were no stars to gage how far off course they might have been blown. Norrington tucked his hands behind his back, and maintained an admirably dignified stride through the sea-muck that marred his boots. He made his way to the helm and waited. Henley emerged from below deck first, his face white and wilted, his hands miserably failing his attempt to keep them still. Norrington saw the pale man's mouth open and shut, the wide, white eyes gliding downward in terror.  
Norrington raised an eyebrow, gestured Henley forward in the secluded corner by his quarters.

"Well? What damage has the Calliope sustained, Mr. Henley?" The words were clipped and guarded as Norrington peered down his nose at the stricken sailor, waiting. Henley fluttered a hand towards the darkness, vaguely downward as he bit out the words, "Sir...she's been breached."

Norrington's lips tightened into a disbelieving line, as his eyes narrowed and he stiffened. "Breached. Are you certain, Henley?"

Henley snapped his neck upward in a sharp bob, held up a hand. "Sir, there's a crack as big as my arm in her hull, and she's already taking on water. It's only a bit of a crack, mind you, and the water's just a bit of a trickle, but the water's already flooding her fast. She doesn't have long before she fills completely, sir."

The words were heaved out in one breathless spew, as Norrington gave him a curt, polite nod. "I see. And how fast is she taking on water?"

Henley gestured towards his breeches. "Sir, it was already above my ankle, and that's in the last hour or so...mercifully, it's a slow leak, but the breech is getting bigger, and I don't know how long we will be afloat."

The horrific conversation was interrupted by the scuttling of boots and Moore's hasty, polite bow. "Sir!"  
Norrington turned to him, silently waiting as Moore hastily rattled off the grim toll of the storm. The main mast had dangerous cracks at its base and was in danger of toppling. Most of the sails were shredded beyond use, the crow's nest and the ship's navigator had succumbed to the wind. According to the sporadic eye-witnesses, there were at least 15 men that were too sick or injured to sail, 9 were missing or unaccounted for, and 11 that had perisched.

Norrington soon learned,hell was not the fiery pit, but the watery abyss that engulfed, consumed, and drowned all with indifference as to the worth of the victims.

It was the last number that made Norrington flinch. Eleven men, dead. His comrades, his brothers, men who had willingly placed their lives and their years into his unworthy hands, and he repaid them by sending them to the ocean's grave. Norrington buried his face in his hands for a long moment, shaking, drawing a choking breath, fighting to regain his control. Hysterics and grief now would only add more to the horrific toll. Swallowing back the anguish, Norrington drew himself to his full height, and closed his eyes for a moment. He drew a cleansing breath with a prayer.

"Thank you for your reports, men. Gather the crew. Order all men to the deck, imediately."

Both men bowed and left as Norrington was left in the silent moment of agony. He promised himself that he would mourn their sacrifice, that he would personally visit their widows and mothers, and sooth the women's tears, and appoint them with whatever honors he could salvage.  
His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of boot heels on the deck, as the shivering, sopping men attempted to form lines with military precision. Norrington barked out, "At ease, men. We have no time for orderly drills when we have a much more serious situation at hand."

Norrington rose to his full, intimidating height as he addressed his men.

"As you may have suspected, the Calliope has sustained a considerable amount of damage in this storm.  
Her hull has been breeched, she is taking on water, and she is sinking."

He felt the crowd shudder, heard gasps of dismay, saw the frenzied panic rising as he forced his serene, calm voice over them again, "I am giving the order to abandon ship."

It was truly a test of British discipline and fortitude to see the eerie calm that had descended upon them.  
There was no mad, heartless scramble towards the lifeboats, there was no shouts, or screams, or drear acceptance of death. It was orderly, detached, mechanical, as some of the men began lowering the lifeboats, as provisions were hastily gathered, and men started boarding the boats. Norrington divided them into groups, appointed a leader for each boat, gave orders that the wounded be taken from the sinking ship amid a few protests. He silenced them with a gritted order and the aid of his pistol.

Gillette had been hauled from his sick bed, his eyes glassy with fever, as he demanded to be left to perish, rather than hinder their progress or squander precious provisions. He gave an indignant squawk, but was silent when Norrington only gave him a searing glare bordering on a plea, and quietly told him his conscious would not permit allowing anybody behind. Gillette quietly accepted it with a curt nod and a sharp salute, before he finally sank downward into the boat, shivering and sweating. Norrington grimaced, Gillette had gone pale and was in obvious pain from his broken arm. Aside from wincing when there was contact with his bad arm, Gillette was stoic and unreadable.

The lifeboats slid swanlike into the water,and were hastily boarded. Norrington held aloft the lantern, beckoning his men to safety, reassuring them, holding the ropes steady. He refused entrance to the lifeboat until the last living man was accounted for. The Calliopie was floundering in the waves, and with a cavernous groan, announced her dying with a sudden tilt to the starboard side. Norrington had to anchor himself upright when the deck beneath his feet abruptly bucked, and nearly trembled when he heard the dull roar of water swallowing her lower compartments.

He felt a hand clap over his arm, heard his name as he turned sharply to the alien touch. Henley had scrambled back to the doomed ship, his pleading lost in the malestrom of the ocean's waves, his hands tugging at Norrington. Time seemed to stop, as Norrington's sea-smeared eyes suddenly leaked a betraying drop that fell unnoticed over his cheek, and silently fell to join the water at his back.

He choked it back, concealed the misery, the cloying guilt, the burden of the dead and the dying with a masterful nod of his head and a tight-lipped smile of reassurance to Henley. With one gliding stride, he leapt over the ocean and landed without stumbling into the pitching lifeboat. He did not look back as he ordered all able bodied men to man the oars, and keep in sight of the other boats.

There was a thunderous crack, gasps of astonishment, bewildered silence and then cries of dismay. Norrington turned over his shoulder to see the last moments of the Calliopie. The ship rose high, her stern skyward, her masts breaking and falling, the sails broken and draped like funeral shrouds. Her stern continued her upward climb, her hull pointing heavenward, as her starboard started its slide into the watery grave. There were loud explosions coming from her depths, as her foundation finally shattered, and there was the eerie glow of gold beneath the waves before her lanterns finally succumbed. There was only the recoil of the water around her jutting mast before the ship quietly sank out of their disbelieving sight.


	9. Splinter

The bloodied linen shirt had been soiled and torn beyond repair, and Gibbs could not hide the flinch as he eyed the huge, scarlet stains. The captain's quarters were bathed in the wanning shift of the few candles dry enough to be lit. Gibbs warily eyed Jack as his captain gave him a considering squint, tilting his head and waving a dubious hand towards the threaded needle. Jack's smirk was tired and forced.

"Mr. Gibbs, since when did you aquire the necessary skill to stitch flesh?" Gibb's brow furrowed, and then melted into a superiour look of achievement. "Same place as I got me shears." Gibbs proudly jabbed the scissors in the air. Jack considered this, wincing as he brought a hand to his beard and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"' Tis an odd and salty wench indeed that teaches ye to sew instead of the typical nocturnal trysts. Was said fair lady French?"

Gibbs's shoulder hitched in answer. "Honestly, Cap'n? I don't remember much of that night, but the bits that memory serves tells me she was like rum for thirst, French or no." His lips twitched in a nostaglic smile for a brief moment, as he recalled her touseled dark hair, warm flesh,and little more. It was enough, anyway.  
Jack gave him a coy nod of understanding. "She must have been bloody good, then."

Gibbs only shook his head with a sad little chuckle, and said, softly. "Aye, Jack. She was."

Gibbs shook off the reverie, and scowled, his attention now glaring and unwelcome at his injured Captain.

"Jack." The order was stern and paternal as Gibbs jabbed a finger to the chair. Jack's lip curled with displeasure as he siddled over like a cat to the chair. With an elaborate sigh and eyes rolling to heaven, Jack presented his bronzed, bleeding back to Gibbs. Gibbs stopped gawking at the woven tapestry of scars and wounds- old and now new, over the expanse of that proud, bared back. A lattice work left from a whipping had left rows and rows of dark, knobbed lines from his shoulder to his hips. The scars were old, long healed up, the flesh marred and hardened as a testimony of the brutal possibilities of a pirate's life.  
Jack had never explained how he came about the flogging, only muttered curtly between swigs of rum that it was unjust, unearned, and 'hurt like bloody, bleeding hell.' Gibbs, so long ago, had sailed under the King's flag, and had felt the lash far too many times to feel it just. Indeed, it was a taste of such fine naval disapline that turned him pirate. Jack had never used the lash, and rarely even felt the need.

Gibbs only shook his head,and busied himself with soaking the fairly clean rag with the rum to clean the wounds. He doused his hands, cursing the lack of soap. Jack craned his neck to glance down at his back, and grimaced. The dark scarlet had congealed around the jagged shard of wood in his shoulder, the edge of the huge splinter jutting proudly. Gibbs swallowed hard, considered the wound for a moment, and then gently grasped the blood-slimed piece. Jack shuddered at the movement, shut his eyes, and hissed out a command to wait. Gibbs snatched his hands away as if burned, alarmed. Jack's face was pinched with pain, sweating and pale as he braced his damp forehead against his crossed arms. Gibbs waited, helplessly as Jack finally nodded permission to proceed.

"Feels like it might be slightly agonizing to have the Pearl's pieces taken out, mate." Jack said quietly, as he waited. Gibbs nodded slowly, his eyes searching over the wounds with another shake of his head. "Aye, that it be, Jack. It won't last longer than it has to, I promise ye."

Gibbs held out the nearly empty flask.

Jack just gave him a rueful smile, gratefully accepted the offered swig of rum and winced at the movement.  
"Make it quick, mate."

Gibbs grimaced at that, spread his hands upward. "I don't want to hurt ye, lad. Them bits in ye....they're deep, Jack."

Jack snorted, gave him a wry, glittering grin. "How well I *bloody* know, Mr. Gibbs. I can feel them imbedded in me flesh. Make it quick, mate."

Gibbs nodded, gulped down the last bit of rum from the flask, and laced his fingers over the wood. Jack's blood was still warm, as Jack tensed, his knuckles turning white as his fingers buried themselves into his flesh. Jack hissed, shut his eyes, panting, as he choked out, "Make it quick, Mr. Gibbs."

Gibbs bit his lip, and jerked the wood free of Jack's body, the scarlet drops sullying his sleeve, the horrible thing held high in his quaking hands. Gibbs gaped at the dagger sharp slant of it, the jagged edges ringed with flesh and bits of linen. It was easily a few inches longer than his hand from finger tip to wrist, and cut bone deep. It dangled for a moment in his slack fingers and the fell to the floor.

Jack successfully choked down the squeal of pain, and the urge to wretch like a sea-sick whelp, but he could not stop the animalistic groan. The thing had sent fire to his veins, searing its way into his shoulder, twisted, grew teeth and bit. It ached when he was still, and it throbbed in agony if he moved. Now, there was only that icy, burning numb torpor and the jutting wound as the world swam before his eyes, and he felt the ship tilting beneath his feet. He curled inward, folding his back and knees together, and nearly slithering to the floor.

Gibbs hated doing it, but thought it a mercy to clean the wound while Jack was swooning. He lay the rum-soaked cloth over Jack's shoulder, and held it there as Jack cursed the burning. Gibbs only lay a steadying hand over Jack's good shoulder, clapping it, and whispering reassurances and hastily wiped away what muck he could. Jack shuddered beneath his hands, bracing his forehead against his arms, panting.

"Easy, lad. Easy, now. 'Tis over with, Jack." The paternal mutterings ceased as Jack slowly raised his head from the shelter of his arms, and blinked at Gibbs. He gave him a curt nod, and then forced a cheery smile. "I was wrong, Mr. Gibbs. That was slightly more than agonizing to remove. Ye did a fine job, though. Thanks, mate."

Gibbs shook his head, stooped to fetch the 'splinter,' and held it out for Jack to see.

"Mother's love, Jack. Twas no splinter I pulled from ye."

Jack's eyes bulged as he eyed it. "Aye, you're correct. That, Mr. Gibbs, is decidedly not a splinter. Twill probably leave a pretty mark."

Gibbs shook his head. "Jack, ye've got marks aplenty across your back, and none's of them be 'pretty." 


	10. The Unforgiven

A/N: I was a bit hesitant to write the chapter, because of concerns about keeping Norrington in character while having an angst-ridden moment. I'm hardly one to do a character study on a fictional character's inner-workings, but, I know that something horrific had to have happened to Norrington between COTBP and DMC to drag him from the heights of being a British naval officer to a drunk who gets hired on a pirate ship. Given the regard that he has for honor and living up to his naval duties in the first movie, I think he would be far more upset over what he would view as a needless loss of life than something 'relatively less anguishing' than being stupid enough to sail a ship through a hurricane. This, here, is my first attempt to explain the 'breaking" of Mr. Norrington. And, to clarify, lest there be any confusion...this is not, and will never be, a slash fic, regardless of how hard you squint. I have nothing against slash fanfic, nor do I care one way or the other if a character is written as being gay and paired off with a character of the same gender. I just think that it's also acceptable for the main male characters in a story to have strong affection for each other, a mutual regard and friendship without romance, and certainly not without a physical component of a relationship being realized. Feelings of confusion about a relationship are almost never neatly resolved by a romp in the sack. It doesn't work in life, and it will not work in my fanfics. Anyway..on with the story....

Night had fallen, passed away, daylight in all its cruel clarity seared down on them. The sky was serene and cloudless, the boats were gently bobbing in the gentle rocking of the sea. The only sounds were the groans of the wounded and the dying, and the ever-present squawk of sea-birds. The remnant of the Calliope's crew were huddled together in the small boats, in shivering, wet misery. A few of the uninjured made half-hearted attempts to paddle the boats. They shouted across the waves to keep their spirits up, or to keep the sad tally of who had died in the night. The dead were hastily prayed over, and gently eased into the water without much more than a quick recitation before being committed to the deep. The Calliope had left behind a hellish mix of rope, wood, and corpses floating on the surface. Norrington had given the curt order to paddle away from the horror of it all. There was nothing to be done for the dead, they were at peace, and he could see nothing good of his men being subjected to the horror of seeing their dead comrades bobbing in the water.

For Norrington, it had been a night of absolute hell and heart-break. In his boat, Williamson, the cabin-boy, a bright eyed scrap of a youth had passed away in the night after sustaining a watery cough and bleeding that could not be staunched. The young man had hacked out his last, his huge eyes filled with the darkness of pain and terror. Norrington could do nothing at all but offer reassurances that seemed cold and formal to the point of cruelty, soothing the boy's worries about his mother, telling him that he was young, but facing death as a brave man. Norrington had held him upright for his last hours on earth, listening to that ragged breath, watching that child struggle to stay in his wrecked mortal shell. Williamson had finally breathed his last sometime before the dawn, as Norrington only bit his lip for a tortured moment, and drew those vancant eyes shut with trembling fingers. Bowing his head, he drew a breath, and forced out each word that seemed heavy with finality.

"We commit your body to the deep, and your soul to the Eternal Father. May God grant you a worthy peace, sailor."

With that solemn invocation, Norrington gave a nod of permission. The small body was hoisted over the side, and gently lowered into the water. Norrington forced himself to watch as Williamson's body sank under the waves, the pale face serene and lingering before he was engulfed and then no more.

Norrington did not reprimand the suspcious wet that suddenly leaked down more than one cheek, but he could not turn to face his men until the blur from his own eyes had been mastered. There were no more words spoken as Norrington only sat back down after offering pitiful reassurances in his stern voice that 'while the situation at hand was tragic, he was resolved to see that no more of his men be lost.'

He only eyed his men with a regal, distancing scowl and a glare before the questions ceased and the silence resumed.

Gillette finally groaned himself awake after succumbing to the pain and exhaustion. Now, he yawned and blinked languidly in the sea-haze, slowly feeling awareness and movement trickling back. His eyes shot open and he shot upward into sitting when he felt the cacoon of blankets swathed around him. He felt something hard and binding over his wrist and slowly, gently raised his bad arm to see what had happened. He was dismayed to see that some merciful soul had bound it in a make-ship brace of wood and strips of cloth. He raised it high, and had instant reason to regret it. He nearly swooned from the sharp movement of the broken bone, and clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from becoming sick in the boat. He panted for a moment, eyes slammed shut as he finally regained control over the understandable reaction to shriek.

"Gillette." Norrington's voice was stern, and concerned as Gillette warily turned to his commander, his cheeks reddening.

"Sir?" The uncertain inquiry was only emphasized by Gillette's improvised salute by touching his forehead. His hat had been lost to the waves, and his once pristine wig had been sullied to a disheveled mess, and his uniform was in tatters. Gillette only looked down.

Norrington only sighed deeply, patiently, and asked, "How is your arm, soldier?"

Gillette forced a smile, and some bright falsity in his voice, "It's much better, sir, Thank you."

"That is good to hear, Gillette." Norrington gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes, before he turned his searching gaze back to the sea. Gillette frowned as he took the interlude to look over his commander.  
The long night had taken its toll. Norrington still maintained his rigid posture, but he had to fight to avoid slumping from exhaustion. His hat and wig had been lost, leaving behind his naked head and sopping dark hair. Norrington had somehow managed to rope it back in a respectable tail, but was apparently indifferent to the stray strands that kept falling over his face. He only tucked them behind his ear, morosely.  
Gillette felt almost invasive for seeing his commander without the military pomp, the fine brocade, the icy veneer of propriety and place. Weariness was etched over the stern mouth. Guilt and misery had stripped him of that carefully cultivated mask of restraint and distance, leaving behind the broken man underneath.

Gillette hesitated, swallowing hard, and gathered his courage. "Sir? Are you alright?"

Norrington said nothing for a long moment before he forced a weary smile and answered, "I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Gillette....Let me reassure you that I am fine."

Norrington turned back to the sea, distancing himself from the kind inquiry, as Gillette took a long look at the water, and another glance at Norrington. Hesitating, he plunged on.

"Sir?" Norrington looked over his shoulder to Gillette, one eyebrow arched. "Gillette, is something troubling you?" The words were polite but chilled as Gillette uncertainly gestured towards the churning mass around them.

"Forgive me, sir, please, for speaking about things to which I've no right." Norrington's brow furrowed in confusion. Gillette looked into his eyes, and held his gaze, each word suddenly hard as a boulder with the agonizing meaning...

"Sir, that hurricane claimed many lives. Without your steady hand to lead us, *all* of us would have perished."

Norrington flinched, and Gillette felt the sickening stab of guilt as Norrington suddenly stiffened as if struck.  
Raising his searing eyes full of naked anguish, Norrington clenched his fists into knots, his voice low, soft, and bitter. "Were it not for my cruel insistence that we sail through the hurricane in vainglorious pursuit of the Pearl, *none* would have perished, Gillette." Norrington put a palm to his forehead.  
"I willingly sacrificed the lives of those men, needlessly, for no reason other than to soothe my foolish pride. Do you not see that, Gillette? Men *died* because of my actions, my mistakes....." Norrington's voice trailed off in anguish as Gillette looked stricken, and pale.

"Sir?" It was soft as a breath as Gillette lay a groping hand on his wrist, the grip of a drowning man being hulled out of the abyss of the unforgiveable. Norrington was silent, and trembling as Gillette dropped the grip on his sleeve. "Sir, I know that if there was some action you could have taken to save them, you would have done so."

Norrington grunted at that, and failed at the miserable attempt to regain his veneer of regal distance. His voice was caustic as he only shook his head. "With all due respect, Gillette, you don't know that."  
Gillette waved his broken arm in the air between them, wincing, before retorting, "With all due respect, I do know that. You could have left me to die on the ship, you could have ordered the able-bodied to leave the wounded behind, you could have simply abandoned the ship and left us all to die on the open water. Sir, you *saved* my life....we who survived the wreck only did so because of your actions...don't you see that, sir?"


	11. Never a Pretty Thing

"Aye, Jack, ye've got marks aplenty across your back, and none's of them be 'pretty." Gibbs muttered as he dabbed away the rest of the blood and the sea-muck. Sighing, he sat back to look at his handiwork, as Jack only kept his rigid posture, wincing and groaning whenever he moved, otherwise. There were fine lines of lacerations running up and down his spine, a darkening bruise from where the log had hit his back, but no hitching breath signifying that Jack had broken a rib. The deep, deep wound on his shoulder was slowly oozing after the splinter had been dislodged, and Jack felt the searing pain at its removal. He had nearly swooned when Gibbs removed it, but that brief flare of agony had been replaced to a dull, icy ache.

Jack carefully craned his neck to peer at Gibbs, raising an eyebrow and glaring down at the jagged slash at his back. "You *will* stitch it shut, right?"

Gibbs snorted at that, held the needle to the candle's flame, and threaded it, with a wicked smirk.  
"And how do ye want it, Jack? Shall I stitch ye lacy like a lady's shift, or somethin' more fancy-like?"

Jack narrowed his eyes, and proudly presented his shoulder with a grunt. "Mr. Gibbs, you will forgive my doubt of your embroidery skills and the distinctly unnecessary need for threading an embellishment on me arm. Just stitch it, and shut it, mate!"

Jack groused irritably as Gibbs gave him a contrite glance and held the needle aloft. "Ready, Cap'n?"  
Jack only closed his eyes, and swallowed. "No... I am decidedly not, Mr. Gibbs. But, forstalling the unavoidable pain will do nothing to negate it, aye?"

Gibbs only looked at him wryly. "No...it won't. But more rum might?" He suggested with a hopeful smile, as Jack nodded tiredly. "Aye....a bit more rum before ye sew me up sounds a fine thing indeed, mate."

It took a bit of bickering between the two, but it was finally agreed that Jack would be allotted two swallows of rum for each stitch. Gibbs knotted one end of the thread, waited as Jack took a long swig, and then nodded permission. Sharp moments of pain flickered over his shoulder as Gibbs quickly pierced flesh, threaded it together, and drew the needle through. Jack had held himself still with remarkable restraint, only jerking in suprise when Gibbs abruptly snapped the thread with the shears, and knotted it off.

"It's over with, Cap'n. And if I may say so meself, them stitches should hold fine." Gibbs looked satisfied as Jack grunted approval when he eyed the straight row of string across his wound, and then gave Gibbs a bright smirk. " A fine job, indeed, Mr. Gibbs. One would never know from your most dubious actions aboard the Pearl that ye had such a mastery of the needle and thread."

Gibbs hitched his shoulders, and wagged a warning finger between them. "Nary a word need be spoken that I've a woman's skill, Cap'n."

Jack scowled at that. "A man need not be ashamed that he pocesses a useful skill, Mr. Gibbs. But...as you like it....nary a word."

Gibbs grunted at that, took the bottle of rum and enjoyed a good, long swallow. "How's the shoulder feel?"

Jack slowly drew the arm up, unfolding it from under his chin, and carefully straightened it, wincing when he moved it wrong. "Much, much better. Thanks, mate." Jack's soft cadence had drifted into nearly a whisper, groaning as he rose and curled a lip at the bloodied shirt. Gibbs shrugged at the shredded material, and flung Jack a linen shirt. Jack caught it midair, and gingerly slid into it, easing his arms into the sleeves mindful of aggrivating the wounds.

Gibbs watched as Jack's hands lingered over his tattered jacket before he heaved it on, a wince flickering over his face, followed by the battered tricone hat. Gibbs watched as Jack worked the exhausted slump into that swaggering gate, forced that pinched grimace of pain into that disguising smirk.

"Jack...." It was another paternal tone, as Gibbs shook his head, when Jack paused, and met Gibb's eyes.  
Jack tilted his head to the side, his brow furrowing when he saw Gibbs's worrying hands figiting with the things he could not say.

"What is it?" Jack narrowed his eyes warily, as Gibbs only swung his hand in a wide, helpless gesture.  
"Cap'n....are ye sure you're alright?"

The question lingered uneasily between them as Jack straightened, flailed his arms wide with a swagger.  
" Course I am, mate. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!"

Gibbs scowled at that, jabbed a finger upwards. "Cap'n, or no, I just pulled pieces of yore own ship out of ye, sewed ye up, and watched ya bleed! Jack....." Gibbs trailed off, heaving a sigh and just shaking his head.

Jack had the grace to look away, uneasily, before he bit his lip and closed his eyes. "Mr. Gibbs." The words were clipped and abrupt as Jack halted the disconcerting conversation with an irritated huff and a flounce of the coat.

"Mr. Gibbs, it matters very little if I'm 'alright,' if I'm a bit incensed by this most aggrivating wound, or if I shriek like a banshee, it does nothing to alter the fact that I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, and as such, and thereforth, I don't have any bloody time to cater to the inconvience of....pain. There's a crew aboard me Pearl that is counting on me to see them home, there's swag to be taken, rum to be enjoyed, wenches to be savored..." Jack's teeth glittered at that thought, as he turned to Gibbs, again.

"Thank ye for your concern, Mr. Gibbs. 'M glad that you're aboard me ship, and ye did a fine job of...stitches, as it were...." Jack hitched his good shoulder, and was already making his way back to the deck. Absently, Jack flung the almost casual remark behind him, though the words were heavy with everything unspoken, "But you are right, Mr. Gibbs, about the scars. I've got them a plenty, and they are never a pretty thing." 


	12. Deliverance?

The second night had fallen the drifting boats, the searing sun had gone down after leaving the sky shade of blood. There was little sound but the occasional grunt of pain, or the hacking cough triggered by water in the lungs. The Calliopie's battered survivors languished in that watery hell,  
somewhere in the sea-smeared haze.

Norrington knew that without direction, and without a clear route to shore, they would either starve, or drown. In the panicked scrambling of escaping the ship, the crew had done a rather impressive job of collecting enough supplies to ensure their survival longer than Norrington had initially thought possible.  
Grimly, he looked out at the open water, and scowled at the lack of sea-birds. The squawk of gulls may have been an irritation at one point, but their presence meant that land was somewhere fairly close.  
There had been no birds seen since the ship had sank, and there was no way of knowing how far off the route they had drifted in the storm.

Gillette was still feverish, and lay in sweating, damp misery at the bottom of the boat,  
his broken arm gingerly cradled to his side. It had been a clean break...mercifully the bone had not pierced the skin, but from the pale, pinched grimace that never seemed to leave poor Gillette's face, Norrington feared for his survival.

Norrington scowled at the breaking waves, and only accepted a few sips of rum after eyeing the crew to make sure each man had gotten his allotted drink. The liquid slid down his throat, and he had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from hacking it back up. His throat had felt as if he had ingested a log of splintered wood, and the throbbing behind his temples had gone from a dull ache to a thundering pain. Norrington had managed to keep the chilled veneer in his voice, but it was puncuated now by a rasping edge that bordered a whisper. He felt the water in his lungs as if he were drowning, heard the hissing, wet choke as he breathed. He had little notion of how much water he had swallowed during the hurricane, but he felt it settling in his chest. He only prayed that he wouldn't be stricken with water lung or any of the other dreaded illnesses that struck his comrads at such vicious intervals.

No matter. He had no time to pander to his own minute issues when his men were at the mercy of the had made a valient attempt at cheering him by stating that the pain in his arm had slackened off,and that he was sure it would mend. Norrington met that bright, false smile with an indulging, false one of his own. Gillette, however, had restored a bit of hope to them when he quietly dove into his coat pocket with his good hand, and presented Norrington with the battered compass. Norrington watched the apologetic hitch of Gillette's good shoulder along with the spew of remorse. Gillette, being understandably preoccupied with his injuries and the miserable state of his health, had forgotten that he had salvaged the compass.

On this night, the hands of God had swept away the clouds, leaving the sky bloated with swells and swells ofstarlight. Their hope rose high and fell all the more deeply when the true horror of their situation manifested again. With the stars, Norrington had, at last, a clear heading. But, with that knowledge came the devastating fact that they were too far away from civilization or even an island to make rescue possible.  
Norrington turned the grim factors over in his mind, but said nothing to his despondant crew. The Calliope had been blown several miles off course before she sank. Aside from the futile skirmish with the Pearl, there was no other ships that had her bearings, or even knew that she had sank. Norrington's lip curled at the thought of the Pearl coming to their rescue. Considering that he had ordered the cannon fire against the pirate ship, he could harbor little delusion about the charitable notion that the pirates would be merciful enough to attempt a rescue. Indeed, with the wind in the Pearl's favor, the cursed ship was probably several leagues away. Norrington stared down at the exhausted,dispirited crew, and then turned back to the ocean, suppressing another one of those bothersome choking coughs.

He only permitted himself to escape the anguish by sleeping after passing on the watch to the next man. Gillette was troubled by both the loud rasp that puncuated his captain's breathing, and disturbed to see Norrington's face still contorted even in sleep.

His sleep was interrupted by an exuberant shout, followed by a chorus of jubilant men. Norrington scowled at the bright arch of sun that hurt his eyes, and he blinked a few moments before forcing himself to rise The sun was high, and Norrington was embarrassed and incensed that he was allowed the luxury to doze like a lad. Gillette had greeted him with an apologetic smile of understanding, explaining that the men thought it necessary to let him sleep. Norrington scowled at that, but his tirade was interrupted by the joyous news that a ship with white sails had been spotted, and was bearing down on them fast. Norrington accepted the news with torpid disbelief, and then another considering frown. Across the horizon, he could make out the tall masts, the swelled sails billowing over the waves like wings. The ship was a behemoth, lumbering over the water at a slow, but steady lurch. He could not see her colors, and she was too far away to see if was friend or foe. Norrington gave a rueful glance to his men, swallowed back another cough with a supreme effort. It seemed he had little choice in the matter, now. 


	13. Antigone's Revenge

Author's Note: Here is where it gets a little AU, but hopefully not too strange, or outlandish. I've never attempted writing Cutler Beckett, so if he is out of character, let me know. To save the reader some confusion, the ship that Cutler Beckett is aboard is called Antigone's Revenge. There's not a really good explanation as to why it's called Antigone's Revenge....I just like Greek mythology, and it sounded slightly better than "Beckett's Boat." Anyway...on with the story.....And, don't worry....Jack will be popping up very soon! God bless.

Lord Cutler Beckett felt the mantle of divinity on his shining forehead like a halo in his dreams. The East India Trading Company's jugernaut consumed the heathen rabbles, the disgusting flotsum of the world, and in turn, imposed an order and a rightness in the universe that those mocking empty spaces of the map could not. He savored that thought with a smirk curling over his lips as he primly brought the tea to his lips and took a small sip. The map of the soon to be established trade routes rested beneath his palm as he serenely announced permission for his servant Mercer to enter the lavish cabin.

Mercer's bow was abrupt and quick, as Cutler raised an eyebrow in annoyance. Touching his temple with an obligatory salute, Mercer curtly announced, "Sir, the captain's confirmed what you feared.....the Calliopie sank in the storm."

Cutler did nothing but take another sip of his tea, raising his eyes over the rim of the cup, and pausing to ask, "What of the cargo? Is there any possibility of it being salvaged?"'

Mercer's lip curled as he bowed his head again. "No, sir...all that's left of her is the planks floating in the tide and a few boatfuls of men who didn't drown with her."

"Hmmmm.....survivors. What of Norrington? Do you know if he lives?" It was a languid musing ending in a calculated purr. Mercer hitched a shoulder, uneasily. "The boats were just spotted, sir...there's no accounting who might have survived, yet. What's to be done with them, sir? Do you wish them aboard?"

Cutler drummed his elegant nails against the mahogony, before he gently set his tea cup down. His lip curled in distain at the minute stain on his laced sleeve, but he quickly masked it with a serene smile of indifference to Mercer.

"I do not care to have Navy rabble aboard....but our good Commadore certainly owes the East India Trading company an explanation as to why a valuable ship sank under his command..."

Cutler turned to Mercer, his lips pulled into a calculating smirk, that chilled veneer drawn out by another sip of tea. "Allow Norrington aboard, and leave the rest of the miscreants in their boats for the moment. I see little need in cluttering up the Antigone's deck without reason, and Norrington and I have much to discuss."

Mercer and he locked eyes for a long moment of unspoken understanding, until Cutler gave his servant a sharp nod. Dismissed, Mercer bowed once again, and left the cabin in haste.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, aboard the lifeboats......

Norrington squinted in disbelief at the white sails and the heavy masted ship that had lighted like an angel of deliverance over the open water. The ship was still a considerable distance away, but growing ever closer. The sight of rescue had propelled the survivors to row over the placid ocean, their misery cast away in the certain hope of food and water.

Norrington watched those sails billowing, as the boat lurched closer. The sea was calm, the sky was clear, and his heart lurched in his chest to see one of the ship's colors flaunting the East Indian Trading Company's marks. Gillette saw Norrington's recoil, and scowled in concern as Norrington's carefully maintained veneer crumbled to a minute flicker of anguish.

The bohemoth continued its languid crawl towards the boats, her shadow arching high over them in the blistering sun. Her hull slid into their view, her sun-drenched wood taking on the tint of gold. Norrington watched as Antigone's crew shouted out the alert that the Calliopie's survivors had been spotted, and only heard Gillette's sigh of relief. Norrington bit back the warning, as he watched warily. Antigone's Revenge was the flag ship for the East India Trade Company, which meant that Lord Cutler Beckett was most likely aboard. Norrington, mercifully, had few encounters with the man himself, and counted himself blessed.  
Norrington had heard the tales of Beckett's blood-soaked rise to power as he climbed the mountain of corpses in the cruel purging of the civilians and their alledged ties to piracy. He had heard of mass-hangings, torture, and even the outlandish tale that Beckett had actually been the one to brand Jack Sparrow as a pirate and lived to tell of it. Beckett, in their few, terse encounters, over at Governor Swann's table, had been cordial enough, complimentary of Norrington's career. Govenor Swann had dismissed the tales as outlandish lies. Norrington had actually pressed Beckett to give an account to their veracity, and Beckett only raised those searing eyes to his, and spread his hands, palms upward, as if he were trying to snatch the sky. "You will see, dear Commodore, that there is no blood on my hands." And Beckett's lips quirked at the irony of the situation. Norrington had to fight the urge to wipe his hand over his breeches, feeling the flesh somehow tainted by that cruel man, and his bloated sense of propriety at the expense of his own humanity.

The tormented memories of the horrible encounter were interupted by the rope being flung down from the side of Antigone's Revenge. Hearing the squawk of alarm behind him, Norrington squinted to see several of the Antigone's crew branishing pistols and cutlesses. The hated face of Mercer was peering down at them all with a sneer. Norrington heard Gillette's stammering, behind him, as he rose to shield his men, and glare up at Mercer.

"Evenin', Commodore...Lord Beckett will be most pleased to hear that you are alive." Mercer's mocking cheer only made Norrington's scowl deepen. Mercer tilted his head to the side, and waved a hand vaguely over the ocean. "Shame about the Calliopie, though. Lord Beckett's asked ye to come aboard and give an account of that....."

Norrington's jaw tightened, but his voice was soft and regal as he spread supplicating hands towards the dismayed men huddling behind him.

"I will be most happy to give an account for whatever Lord Beckett wishes, but after these men are tended to. They are sick and injured, sir, and I will not waste time on needless chit-chat while my crew is suffering and left for dead in these boats!"

Mercer's voice was chilled venom behind that smug, scarred smile. "Lord Beckett's given me orders to shoot one of your crew for each minute you stay in the boat, Commodore. Seeing how you're so concerned with their safety, maybe you should come aboard?"

Norrington silenced the protests of his men with a beseeching glare and turned back to the ship when he heard the horrible sound of a pistol cocking. "Time's wasting, Commodore."

Norrington grimaced as he gripped the slimed rope, and made an undignified scramble aboard the Antigone. Coldly, he straightened the tattered remnants of his uniform jacket, and gave Mercer a scathing glare. "Allow my men to at least have water, sir."

Mercer only answered with a sharp jerk of the pistol, jabbing it into the general direction of the ship's cabin.  
Norrington flinched when he cocked it, but Mercer only chuckled. "No need to be alarmed if you're cooperating, Commodore. As for allowing anything to your crew....be satisfied that Lord Beckett has allowed them to live for the moment. There's worse things that could be done, you see..." At those last words, Mercer raised the pistol, caressed it with a meaningful glance to Norrington. Norrington swallowed hard, bit back the bile in his throat, as he stared at those mahogony doors. Mercer gave him a mocking bow, as he tapped at the door, seeking permission to enter. The door was flung open, and Norrington forced himself forward, hearing the door close behind him like the door of a tomb in its finality. 


	14. Aboard the Pearl, and the Antigone

"The sky's a blue, the sea's a squall-  
The wind she rises, the ship, she falls-  
The waves, they come, they rock her hull-  
Til the sea at last has taken all-  
Hold these days, sailor-  
The memories,the waters wild Hold them-  
Like a mum with her last child-  
Hold yore wee one, love-  
Hold him dear-  
He's only there just a lil' while-  
The sea's in the blood The tide turns the heart-  
Till he boards the ship And then ye part-  
To brave the wave and The sea and the storm-  
Twill break her heart, When the ocean's yore home-  
So kiss your beloved when you bid her farwell-  
A lady love, for the ocean's swell-  
To chance the tide, the time, the years-  
Till there's naught left, but the sea, and the tears-"

Jack's lilting song ended with an artful finger dabbed in mocking attempt to catch a tear at the last words. He swept his hat off his head, and with a swirl of his hand tucked at his waist, gave the snickering crew a deep, flourishing bow to their thunderous applause. He skillfully dodged the hands that attempted their friendly clasps over his shoulder and back, and managed to hide the wince of pain whenever he couldn't. It was two days after the horrible fight with the hurricane. The men were quite heartened to see their captain back to his usual high spirits that were even brighter now that he not only had song and rum, he was back on the Pearl's deck. Jack had only taken the night he had gotten wounded, and the day after to recuperate, and that was only after Gibbs enlisted the help of the more stalwart crew to carry out the threat of tying Jack to the bed. That threat was met with a bright, airy dismissal, as Jack clutched the doorframe to stay upright, pale, and sweating, and nearly falling to his knees.

He gave them a forced smirk, and gleefully informed them that "while he was most flattered by the proposal of being tied to a bed, the offer was rapidly losing his charm, as he had the decided preference of a few women of decidely questionable virtue to do it." Gibbs only glared in answer and Jack primly snarled back that he was 'bloody fine." That earned Jack the dubious honor of being the only captain who was mutinied into bed rest. Gibbs could not stop the triumphant smirk as Jack squawked like a mad hen as they hoisted him up and set him down on the bed. Gibbs had cause to regret it, however. They had accidently jostled the injured shoulder and Jack could not stop the yelp of pain, nor that agonized tremble of humilation as he tried to cradle the injury with his shattered dignity. Gibbs watched in horror as Jack's pale, sweating face rose from beneath that curtain of dark hair, his good arm helplessly clutching at the shoulder, panting.  
"Mr. Gibbs." He ground out between those clenched teeth. "Thanks to your well-intentioned, but decidely unhelpful methods, I have made the decision to honor your request of staying off me shoulder for one night. Now, kindly aid my recuperation by getting me all the rum that an injured man may consume until he exchanges his pain for drunken oblivion, and get out." The last words were spat as Jack swallowed hard and shuddered. Gibbs attempted to stammer out some nonsense that Jack could not decipher, and his throbbing head wouldn't allow the thought to do it anyway. Jack braced himself by propping his good elbow on his knees, trying not to curl up like a dying animal. "Did I not make my request to you sea-scabs clear? Get me me rum and get out!!!" It was bellowed so loudly that they all flinched at the nearly shrill noise. Shock finally melted into action and Jack felt a bit of his dignity return when the two scurried away like frightened rodents.

Gibbs blew the withheld breath out in one long huff, crossed his arms, and stared down at Jack with a raised eyebrow. "Jack.... if it pains ye to the point ye feel the need to shriek like a lass, then ye need to rest.  
A hurt captain's no good, ye know that."

"But a humilated one's better, aye?" Jack whispered curtly as he slowly eased himself onto the edge of the bed, glaring at Gibbs and uneasily stroking the ring of beads beside his cheek. Gibbs shrugged, and sighed. "Jack, ye got more snarl than a speared shark, and less sense than usual....for ye...." Gibbs added relunctantly. Gibbs said nothing more, but only gave a meaningful look to Jack's shoulder. "Them stitches can't hold unless ye ease up on them, and I don't think ye fancy another sewin' session, do ye, Cap'n?"

Jack raised his chin, and answered, primly, "Decidedly not. Once was more than enough." He narrowed his eyes at Gibbs, but then brightened when the men returned, heavily laden with the requested drink. Gibbs' eyes bulged at the sheer volume of the rum, and Jack only gave him a knowing smile as he cheerfully uncorked the nearest one. "Aye, a man may not drink his pain away, Mr. Gibbs...but if at first ye don't succeed, I see it best to try, try again."

Jack frowned, mid-swig, and cocked his head to the side, puzzled. "Gentlemen....I know that it's probably an awe-inspiring sight to see with your own disbelieving eyes how much 'medicine' I must consume to heal me wound, and I promise ye, you'd all nod off before I feel the urge to even close my eyes. Truly, if you are waiting for me to drink myself to Kingdom come....that Kingdom will be here first. Now, go tend to ye immortal souls, and let an injured man heal himself with the most blessed manna from heaven the Good Lord could provide, eh?"

After some muttering, and another verbal spat with Gibbs, Jack had waved them along with his good arm, and was left to his hurt and cotemplation with little more company than his troubled thoughts and the eternal rocking of the Pearl.

It was the oddest deliverance he had yet experienced, the storm-lash actually *saving* the Pearl. He cocked an eyebrow at that thought, and took a swallow, and tipped the bottle to the heavens, with a grin. "Always knew ye liked me. My thanks."

His thoughts drifted to the darker possibilities, unwillingly. There was a disagreeable lapse of time that a man had before the rum's lubrication could work its warm, easing torpor over the troubling thoughts. For the oddest reason, Norrington's stern, unyielding face came to his mind, and Jack shook his head. For all the man's poncy, blind adherance to duty, he had proven himself to be, what Jack called, a good man.  
Norrington had allowed the Turners their happiness, he had delayed pursuit of the Pearl, and even in those horrific moments when Jack languished in that cell, awaiting his execution, Norrington had given his men the strictest of orders that his prisoner was not to be abused. Aside from the boredom, the cage, and the torture of pondering his demise without distraction, Jack was spared another branding, or a flogging.

What sort of madness had unhinged that unyielding sense of duty to risking his crew and men to give chase in a hurricane? Jack scowled uneasily at that thought. The Pearl had sailed a sizable distance, and he knew that the Calliopie had taken the brunt of the storm. Jack sincerely hoped that the ship had survived the storm, and that the Commodore had somehow lived through it. It seemed a cruel fate for the man and the rest of the King's men to be swallowed up by the abyss of the sea.

If that behemoth had sunk, Norrington's absense and the loss of the ship would surely be noted, and that would result in quite an inquiry as to what would have been strong enough to sink her. Jack knew it was surely long odds that there had been any other observers of the battle that weren't aboard his Pearl, or the Calliopie. Jack closed his eyes, and grimaced. Were there any survivors of the Calliopie, they were most likely to blame the Pearl for the outcome, rather than the obvious foolishness of Norrington. A pirate ship was a hated thing to the Crown, but a pirate ship held responsible for the sinking of the Calliopie would garner a special loathing. Jack's neck itched in poisonous reminder of that coiled rope, that memory of strangling to death as the crowd watched, amused. Sighing, Jack shook his head, and finally lay back as the sleep overwhelmed him. There was naught to be done about it now.

Meanwhile....aboard the Antigone...................

The bloated opulance of the mahogony trim made Norrington's lip curl in disgust, but he mastered the impulse to spit when he heard the casual clink of the silver spoon against the tea cup. Norrington stiffened when he heard the dismissing huff of annoyance, those cold eyes sliding up from the dockets on the desk.  
Cutler Beckett set down the feather back to its inkwell with deliberate patience as he calmly waved Norrington forward with a slight motion of his fingers.

Beckett masked his shock at Norrington's appearance with a raised eyebrow and a long, considering stare.  
The stench of sweat, sea-muck, and nearly a week adrift on open water was acrid, and filth clung to the man like a second skin. Norrington's wig barren head now had a mop of long, dark hair that fell in tangled disarray like sea-weed. There was a cut above Norrington's unshaven left cheek, his uniform was in tatters, and the only surviving remnant of his rank was that straight spine, and that regal glare.

"Commodore Norrington. If you would be so gracious as to give an account of the whereabouts of the Callopie?" The words were cutting, as Beckett waited.

Norrington glowered at him, and bit back the spew of words he really wished to say. Visibly restraining himself, Norrington forced his tone of voice to be calm and polite. "I am more than willing to give an account of what happened to the Callopie, sir, but I must ask that my men be attended to with the upmost of haste."

Beckett tipped his chin forward, lowered his eyes and glowered at him, his mouth working into a forbidding line, as he put palms down and rose from the desk. "Commodore Norrington." It was that same, cold, irritating tone that Norrington loathed, "Perhaps your....sojourn at sea has clouded your reason, but your bleeting about the welfare of your men does not answer my question. What happened to the Callopie?"

"She sank...sir." The last word was nearly spat. Beckett considered this with another long stare and another sip of tea. His words were chilled and detached as he continued the interrogation.

"You are an able man, Commodore Norrington, a highly respected and skilled officer of the British Royal Navy. You were entrusted with a valuable vessel.....I find it very hard to believe that a ship that fine could....abruptly sink."

Norrington lowered his head, and closed his eyes, drawing in a cleansing breath. In as humble tone as he could choke out, Norrington said, softly, "My apologies....Lord Beckett, for my rash words. We had the misfortune of catching the brunt of a sudden and violent storm. The Calliopie took on too much water and sank on its account. My surviving crew barely escaped with their lives, and a sizable number did not escape at all."

Beckett's eyebrows rose at that, when he heard the remorse take its bitter edge in Norrington's voice. Beckett nodded, some decision suddenly made as he lightly called for Mercer.

Mercer appeared instantly. "Mr. Mercer, please allow Commodore Norrington's men to board, and see to their....'comfort.'" Beckett narrowed his eyes with a cruel smile. "After all, Mr. Mercer, dead men tell no tales, but prisoners can be quite talkative when the right method of persuasion is administered."

Norrington flew upwards, rounding on Beckett with a snarl, and little else as Beckett only gazed at him,  
serenely. "Be at ease, Commodore. A dead crew is a useless one, and I see little need for any more...needless death, unless you force my hand on this issue. Mr. Mercer....see that the wounded are tended to, and that they recieve an allotment of food and water enough to see that they live."

Turning back to Norrington with a genteel sneer, he only raised an eyebrow, and continued, "And, in the event that Commodore Norrington deems it necessary to display some futile bit of heroics, my original order to shoot them all will go into effect, imediately."

Mercer gleefully brandished his pistol, gave it a loving caress and a smile towards Norrington. Beckett gave Norrington a triumphant smile when Norrington raised his hands in a placating gesture and backed away.  
Mercer left after another vicious glance, and Norrington was left alone again with the hated Beckett. 


	15. Hostage

It was with perverse and delicately veiled amusement that Beckett simply watched Norrington.  
Norrington was rigid with that veneer of military aplomb again, donning the trappings of duty and self-disapline once more. Norrington's eyes lingered in anguish at Mercer's disappearing back.  
Beckett cleared his throat loudly, and Norrington stiffened, and forced a calm he did not feel as he turned back to Beckett. That masterfully controlled rage was only evidenced by the twitch of one cheek as Norrington only gave Beckett a sharp jerk of his back in a subservient bow. Beckett's chuckle was as brittle as broken glass when Norrington rose, and only met the sound with restrained, waiting silence

Beckett noted that his praise had clearly unsettled Norrington even more, as the man was clearly searching him for a reason or a direction as to where the odd conversation was going. Beckett was pleased. Only a shrewd man would disearn so much in such a small amount of time. Norrington was clearly a man whose pride could not be manipulated. However the man's unyielding sense of duty over his crew's welfare was definitely a tether to keep the able seaman in check, if needed.

Beckett graced Norrington with another icy smile, and a grandiose wave of his hand.

"Be at ease, Commodore. I gave you my word that your men will not be harmed. They shall not be as long as there is no need."

Norrington bit back the snarl, as he carefully ventured, "May I venture a question, sir?"

Beckett cupped his chin in his palm and raised eyebrows, coyly. "I believe you already have." His voice went from airy dismissal to cold, vicious calculation."Commodore Norrington, this needless banter is a waste of my time....and yours. Allow me the liberty of saving us a bit of time by speaking earnestly of issues that concern us both. Tea?"

Norrington nodded curtly. There was a timid knock on the door, and an even more timid voice seeking permission to called out the affirmation. Norrington watched as a quaking cabin boy held a tray ladden with fine china and freshly made tea. Giving Norrington a panicked glance, the boy attempted to set the tray down on the desk and whimpered in fear at the loud clank of china against wood. Norrington instinctively grabbed the tray's edge, steadying both the china and the cabin boy in one smooth motion. The boy panted, his wide eyes darting from Norrington to Beckett.

Glancing at Norrington, Beckett forced another deceptively serene smile. "If you would kindly place the tray here..."Norrington gave the boy a reassuring nod, and said, softly, "At ease, lad. I'll help you." The boy swallowed hard, nodded mutely and gave Beckett a look of absolute terror.

Beckett only gave him a look that made the sweltering heat on the sea turn to frigid tension in a matter of moments. "You may go now, Thomas. See to it that you have more care with the china."

The boy gulped out a stammering, "Yes, sir, sorry,sir," as he touched his cap and bowed his way out of the room, looking stricken. Beckett watched the retreating child and heaved a small, disgusted sigh. "It's a shame that the first whipping did not cure that young oaf of his clumsiness."

Norrington recoiled as Beckett gave him another languid sneer. "Disobedience and personal failings are best removed by sound, and swift consequences, Commodore. I am sure that you have administered your fair share of Naval discipline as needed?"

Norrington hastily sipped his tea, and let the burning liquid halt the spew of words with another swallow. In truth, Norrington felt that men treated as beasts would eventually turn into beasts. Beckett obviously did not share those sentiments. "Only in dire need, and certainly not against a mere child."

Beckett even managed to make the amused snort elegant as he set down the fine china with a tolerant smile and an indifferent shrug. "Clearly we have a difference of oppinion....however, this is hardly a pressing matter compared to the issue at hand....an issue that concerns 'you,' Commodore."

Norrington eyed him warily, waiting silently. Beckett leaned back in the chair. "Allow me to resume our previous line of conversation. I have no doubt your curiosity has turned to dread in the course of so much interruption. My apologies."

"I have no doubt that the name of Jack Sparrow is familiar to you." Beckett noted Norrington's flinch with satisfaction. Norrington narrowed his eyes, recovering his self-control admirably fast. Swallowing, Norrington ground out, "I have had the misfortune of making his aquaintance in battle, and on open water, sir. I prefer to avoid familiarity with pirates."

Beckett raised a skeptical eyebrow. "For one who claims to avoid familiarity with pirates, Commodore, you have shown a great deal of mercy towards the man in the past. I understand that you gave the order to delay chase after that miscreant escaped the noose. I would know why." The words were biting as Beckett only resumed his elegant lounge of calculated boredom laced with subtle venom.

Norrington's voice was calm and growing more chilled with the unspoken accusation. "You will recall, Lord Beckett, that Port Royal was sacked by pirates beforehand, which taxed our ability to defend the fort. That, coupled with the necessity of ensuring protection of the civilians limited our ability to mount a pursuit. I gave the order to delay chase because we could not spare the men."

"Hmmm." It was a cold sound, the first inarticulate noise Beckett had made. "You could not spare men to chase the Pearl...And, yet, I do believe you and Governor Swann had enough resources at your disposal to rescue Miss Elizabeth Swann, from the same group of pirates. Despite this dubious lack of resources, you captured Jack Sparrow and returned him to face the noose."

Norrington had lived through the same hell as the rest of them, of course. He had seen corpses slaying his men, bones in the moonlight, the undead enfleshed and then dying, while he drew blood, dismayed that the mortal wound could not kill these spectres. Sparrow was found palming the gold coins, the crown tipped stupidly over his scarf, that wide, cheeky grin splintering into weary acceptance as his hands were tied and he was escorted back aboard the Naval ship. Will only stood there, looking like a forlorn whelp, as Elizabeth daintily huffed in her lady-like way, before crying in shrill, piercing anguish, "But he's a good man, he doesn't deserve to hang!"

Jack somehow shrugged the hands off his shoulders and turned to look at the two lovers with a broken grin of gold that didn't reach those dark eyes. "Love." He silenced her with a word, and a meaningfully raised eyebrow. "Whelp." Will lurched forward as Elizabeth choked out Jack's name. All the frivolity, all the foppish cadence had been stripped away, as Jack only tilted his head and sighed. "I appreciate this most unseemly show of dramatics on me behalf, but as these are my last hours, I'd prefer ye honor me last request and please.....shut it!" Elizabeth recoiled as if she had been slapped for once and Will only blinked, stunned. Jack sighed again,bit his lip and bowed his head apologetically. "Apparently the lack of rum is affecting my manners, and I'd prefer that your young love stay on the right side of the rope as it were. All this fuss isn't helping."

Elizabeth was in tears and Will only slid a helpless arm over her shoulder. Jack raised his hands, the shackled clink all the more perverse as he attempted to assauge the damage. "If it's me time....it's me time, mates. There's no getting round that." Jack offered them a tired smile as Elizabeth only choked his name again and Will gave her a panicked glance before soothing her hair and gathering her close. Jack didn't fight them as they took him below to the brig, and showed a restraint that Norrington found disconcerting.

His thoughts were interrupted when Beckett pointedly cleared his throat and scowled. "And somehow, despite the fact that Sparrow was under armed guard and already there with the noose around his neck, he escaped under your watch." The edge of accusation felt like a whip-lash as Beckett only gazed at Norrington, the ice in his eyes matching the chilled disregard as he allowed another serene smile to emerge.

"However, I am willing to grant you one chance to rectify this mistake in exchange for my generosity in sparing the lives of your crew. You will find Sparrow, and deliver him into my hands." 


	16. Unexpected

Beckett took another delicate sip of tea, his eyes peering up at Norrington above the cup's gold trimmed edge. Norrington was silent,

his breathing measured and slow as he closed his eyes for a long moment. Softly, he tilted his head to the side, and gave the door a

longing look before he turned to Beckett. "While I thank you for your generousity in sparing my men, Lord Beckett, what you ask

is impossible. I-"

Norrington was interrupted by the sharp clink of the silver spoon being set down on the saucer as Beckett's glare siddled up to his.

Tucking his hands behind his back, Beckett rose elegantly, and strode towards Norrington, his face placid and deceptively indifferent.

He halted inches away from Norrington, his nostrils crinkling in distaste as Norrington shuddered. "Are you refusing my request,

Commodore? I am prepared to give Mercer the standing order to shoot one member of your crew for each hour you choose to

delay your answer. Need I call him?"

Norrington's eyes widened in horrified disbelief as he shook his head frantically. "Lord Beckett, I beg of you, take your vendetta out

on me, but spare the crew! They had nothing to do with my failure to maintain the Calliopie, or Sparrow's escape!"

Beckett considered that information with an indifferent dismissal as he peered up at Norrington again. "Commodore, I am well aware of where

the responsibility lies for your failures. The slaying of your crew would not be a proper atonement for that, nor do I view it as such."

Norrington gave him a puzzled scowl that made Beckett grace him with another sneer. "I care not if your men live or die, Commodore, and

the death of each one of them would be pitiful compensation for the loss of the Calliopie and the escape of Sparrow. However, your

touching concern for their welfare seems to be the most effective way to secure your cooperation. Were it simply you alone, I imagine

this most dubious conversation would have ended long ago with your noble, but ultimently meaningless death. Concern for others, Commodore,

is truly the best noose for an unbending neck."

Norrington was pale, the dull sheen of sweat lining his face, as his body went rigid with the strain of holding back the vomit burning his throat

and the words on his tongue. Choking both back, he heaved a few strengthening breaths, and finally spoke, in a voice chilled with barely concealed

anguish, and rage.

"How can I possibly do what you ask?"

Beckett's lip curled in cruel amusement, as his voice drifted to little more than a satisfied purr, "How can you

possibly not?"

There was only silence as Norrington looked dangerously close to fainting. Beckett's considerable awe of the man had grown further when he

noticed the quivering in Norrington's shoulders and that white knucked grip against the chair back. Norrington only remained upright by the

crumbling strength of his considerable self-control. Waving a languid hand towards the plush chair that Norrington braced his body over, Beckett

merely said, "Perhaps you should sit, Commodore. You look positively ill."

Norrington nearly fell into the chair, and waited for the room to stop its erratic tilt as his head throbbed and his limbs quivered and threatened to

collapse if he attempted to stand.

"More tea?" The delicate inquiry was ignored as Beckett only quirked an eyebrow and poured himself another draught, and then refilled Norrington's

cup. Norrington gave the cup a glare, but said nothing as Beckett primly sat back with a smile and an expectant glance at the door.

"Please do not think that I would simply send you abroad with no means to achieve what I have asked of you, Commodore. You shall have adequate

resources, and a suitable guide who will lead you to Sparrow." That vicious little smirk was on the verge of demonic as the door opened, and

Norrington was again presented with the scarred, sneering Mercer.

"Ahh, Mr. Mercer. Did you bring our guest?" Mercer's mouth twisted as he nodded. "Aye, sir. The lady is here, and quite willing to be on her _way."_

Beckett's lips quirked. "They do say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned..I find that a most interesting quote to validate, don't you, Commodore?"

Norrington's eyebrows climbed high and then disappeared beneath the dark drape of bangs as Mercer stepped aside with a mocking bow to allow

entrance. Norrington heard the huff of dismissal, the thud of stolen boots as she strode between the small ring of men, her thatch of long dark hair

unbound to ragged ends, buried under the faded scarf she had tied around her head. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, her dark face nothing

more than a squint and a snarl as she eyed all of them with disgust. Norrington recognized the woman as the lone female pirate who had sailed

on the Pearl with Sparrow. She had the wild, savage grace of a feral cat, down to the hiss of recognition as she gave Norrington a scathing glance.

"Commodore Norrington, may I present your...escort." Norrington's eyes bulged as Beckett chuckled at his discomfort, and the pirate turned her narrowed eyes

to Norrington and looked as if she wanted to gut him where he stood. "So this is the man?" Her voice was shrill as she jabbed a finger in Norrington's direction,

and turned her glare to Beckett. Norrington could not help but back away from the sudden emergence of this sea-banshee. Beckett nodded evenly, as he

gently lay on the desk a considerable stack of gold coins with a pointed glance to the woman. She glowered at him, but scooped them up after biting one

between her teeth to test its worth. She tucked them away, as she turned to Norrington.

"You were the man who caught Jack Sparrow." She nearly spat the words as she gave him a scathing glare, eyes taking in his torn, mussed clothing, and

the ruined brocade. "And then ya let him go."

Norrington did not answer the accusation with anything but curt, stoic silence as Beckett chuckled in amusement. "


	17. Stricken

A/N. 'Captain's Daughter' was a slang term a flogger or a whip that was used to mete out punishment. It does not imply that

Jack slept with this captain's daughter....although being Jack, one would not be too shocked.

_Jack recoiled at the bite of the lash, the futile thrashing, the horrible seconds between the whip carving into his bare_

_back, and then the explosion of sensation, icy ache and lacerations burning as the men laughed. There was the hissing in the air, _

_that angonized waiting, and then the crack of leather as it fell from the sky and would have driven him to his knees if his bound hands_

_hadn't held him upright. Blood, hot, wet, blood fell into his eyes, rolled into the deep welts, congealed and itched until it was ripped_

_away with another blow._

_Jack had lost count after 15, the only sound he could make was an animalistic grunt in time to the cracks. He had bitten his lip to hold_

_in the screams, and tasted blood on his tongue. The lashing sounded like pistol fire,it felt like hell, and blessed oblivion was slowly _

_claiming him as the captain barked the curt order for the bosun to stay his hand. Jack vaguely remembered being grateful to be out_

_of the vicious embrace of the captain's daughter. She was a harsh, unforgiving mistress to administer such a punishment. He _

_felt their hands cutting away the ropes around his wrists, and he slithered downward into a bleeding, boneless heap of shredded_

_flesh. He heard a cackle fall like breaking glass over the sudden roaring in his ears, the tidal wave of dirty sea-water they dumped over_

_his back to wash away the muck. The salt burned the open wounds, and he did not even have the strength do flinch away_

_when one of them clapped a mocking hand over his spine. There was only that gut-deep groan as they hoisted him to his feet,_

_as he staggered in their grip and fell again. They allowed him to slam downward onto the deck, their cruel cacklings puncuated by_

_a brutal kick to his ribs as he finally slid himself up on his was in so much blinding pain that even his famous wit had_

_failed him, and for all of his eloquence, all he could manage was that choaked grunt as he was hefted up and dragged back to the _

_brig. The light of the sun was swallowed, the sky and the sea disappeared into the dark abyss below. Jack shuddered when they _

_wretched him upright, while one fumbled with the rusted lock, the cage door slid open like a mouth. By then, he was so weak_

_from the blood loss and the trauma that he swayed, then stumbled, and finally, his boots somehow lost their footing._

_Jack collapsed. They didn't trouble themselves to drag him up from the floor, after attempting to force him to rise with the _

_persuasion of kicks and fists. Jack could do no more than curl into a heap, attempting to cradle his battered head from _

_another blow. The captain bellowed from above deck, demanding that his men return, that they let Jack die in the _

_stinking brig, slow, rather than hasten his way to hell by more beatings. Jack felt himself being gripped, and dragged_

_over the slimed floor. They simply let his head flop into the muck and his was nothing more than a bloodied mess _

_of tattered clothes and numb torpor. He curled up like a dying animal, barely heard the slamming creak of the rusted bars, _

_nor the squeaking key in the lock, and did not even have the strength to do more than raise his head to vomit. The bile stung,_

_brought forth tears as he groaned and rolled a few inches away from the puddle of his filth. And, finally, the blessed oblivion _

_came as he fainted._

The shaft of light trickled down over his face as Jack exploded from the treacherous murk of his own past. Bleerily, he clutched

his throbbing head, and moaned as the world tilted. The aftermath of the memories mingled with the day for a tortured moment.

Jack panted, feeling the sweat and the heat of the fever hot and horrid on his forehead. He blinked in swooning observation

of the dark little cabin and the sheets writhed around his limbs like shackles. Slowly,he attempted to sit upright, and fell

back with a moan. The sudden nausea was overwhelming, his gut churned, and Jack only had time to clap a hand over his mouth

and roll his face to the bed's edge before he vomited into the bucket beside it. Somehow, Gibbs heard the sounds of his captain's

abdominal distress, mixed with Jack's colorful cursing, and the grunts of pain. Gibbs stormed in, and just gawked for a disbelieving

whimpered when it was over with, allowing his sweat-soaked face to roll back into the comfort of the pillow as he lay there

pale and sick, hands clenched over his stomach.

"Captain!" Gibbs's voice was piercing and shrill,and Jack recoiled with another groan. Jack flinched when he felt Gibb's callaused palm

light over his drenched scarf, linger over his forehead, and then jerk away as if the fever burned his hand. "Jack..." Gibbs whispered softly,

"Lord, Jack, yore burnin' up!"

Jack slowly opened his eyes, his forehead crinkling, as he blinked at Gibbs. "Mr. Gibbs, unless I am rendered incoherent, and I start

seeing visions of dancing rum bottles in some fever-induced delirium, I find it most redundant for you to state the obvious to me.

I am well aware of the fact that I'm decidedly, unpleasantly ...ill."

Jack spat the last word as if it tasted bad, before he lay a shaking arm across the wall, hooked an elbow over a plank, and attempted

to hoist himself upright. He winced as the world blurred, and shifted, and forced himself on his feet. Gibbs bit back the cry of alarm as

Jack swayed, not from his usual drunken grace, but from the staggering tremble of a man close to collapse. Jack suddenly clapped a

hand over his mouth, and plunged his face down into the bucket. The horrible wretching that followed left him a quivering, sweating mess.

Panting, Jack wiped the muck from his mouth with his sleeve, and grimaced at the acrid aftermath on his tongue. Gibbs watched as

Jack folded arms across his gut, his mouth a thin white line of pain. He slithered downward , wilting, until

he was almost prone on the bed, his eyes clenched shut.

"Oh....bloody _hell......_" Jack groaned and lurched desperately towards the bucket. Gibbs hstily shoved it forward, as Jack heaved again.

Gibbs eyed him uncertainly when it was over with, as Jack leaned back with a moan he could not squelch.

"Cap'n? Ye alright?"

Jack just nodded his bowed head, and forced a faltering grin. " 'Course I am, mate! 'm Captain Jack Sparrow, and I've little time to cater

to a bit of stomach upheaval as it were...Tis already done with, Mr. Gibbs."

Gibbs scowled at that, as he lumbered over to Jack's side, and squinted at his shredded back, lip twisting in consideration.

"Lemme look at them cuts, Jack. They may be infected."

Jack gingerly slid over, wincing again as he presented Gibbs with his bronzed, wounded flesh, waiting. He heard Gibbs's slow

hiss of shock, and then that finality in Gibbs shaking his head. Jack's wounds were weeping fluid, turning deeper shades of scarlet,

mingled with that unnatural flush of fever that Jack had.

Jack glanced down at his wounds, troubled, and then back to Gibbs. Carefully shrugging, Jack slowly lurched to his feet, and stood, wobbling

as a newborn foal, and forcing a reassuring grin for Gibb as the floor tilted and the world began its erratic spin.

Giving Gibbs a fopish wave of his hand, he only had time to grin before the abyss roared in his ears, and he saw the floor rising up to meet him.

Jack took one foolish, tottering step forward, before he collapsed. Gibbs grunted, caught him before he slammed his head against the wood.

Jack lingered in that anguished, fever-smeared reality for a long moment, fixing Gibbs with a hazy stare before he fainted.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


	18. The SeaBanshee

Author's Note: Time for a bit of a background into this chapter. According to what I've read about the POTC, Beckett originally hired Jack to captain

a slave ship called the Wicked Wench. Jack, displaying a rare streak of his nobility, apparently set the cargo free, which pissed Beckett off, who then

sank Jack's ship, and branded him a pirate. Now, this is significant, because a brand, by its nature, permanently marked Jack as a criminal, even if

he never engaged in any law-breaking at the time. In the COTBP, shortly after he rescues the drowning Elizabeth, you can see Norrington's distain

and Jack's subsequent arrest, all because of the P on his wrist. I don't think it would be too different than a scarlet letter, and it would certainly

explain Sparrow's very skittish nature towards authority. I don't think it's simply because he fears them, it probably has to do with some past mistreatment

he suffered at their hands. And, yes...I fully intend to explore Jack's angst ridden moments in future fics, if I have the time.

I've not really read any backstory as to how Anamaria and Jack met, so I cobbled together my own slant

on the story. I know that there are a few places that if you squint, there is a hint of a Jack/Anamaria romance going on, but in this story, there

simply isn't. I believe that the two are good friends, and nothing more,and this is how I wrote it.

_Anmaria never knew that hell's stench would consist of the unwashed human cargo, the sweat, the filth, the very air poisoned and trapped from the_

_closed hatch. Here, the humidity swelled into a cloying, blanketing skin that only increased the heat and the misery in the dark. Hell's noise,_

_she learned, was the groans of the dying and the living, the indifferent clink of shackle as one of the stronger ones turned over. At first,_

_the hull had been filled with a catophony of shrieks, baby's wailing, their mothers frantically attempting to comfort them into silence,_

_the babbling of so many, idle conversation, and then the shrieks of anguish as the weaker ones, mainly the sick and the old and the_

_babies, were snatched from the mass of humanity, uncerimoniously hauled upward to the deck, and flung overboard. One by one, the crack of_

_light as the hatch opened, the glimpse of the sky, and the sea, the indifferent men weighing each of the slaves' worth. A finger might be jabbed_

_in judgement, maybe an idle nod, and the death sentence was administered by throwing the living into the ocean with no more thought than_

_one might have in tossing unwanted bilge water off the deck. Anamaria had already endured the severing of all she ever cherished when they_

_had snatched her from her home and her mother's arms to shackle her wrists...so small, so frail and bleeding from where the iron chafed_

_her futile attempts to flee. _

_She had cowered and wept until they had flogged her tears to a halt. Now, she only endured the days because she could not will herself to die,_

_and she had no means of killing herself. Time seemed to die along with her prisoners, laying itself to rest in resignation and surrender. There_

_was no daylight down here to mark the passing of days, or the nights. There was only the crew that came down to torment, and drag away_

_more of the dying, the sick and the corpses as they flung down bits of weevil-infested crust and tepid, foul water. They cackled as the chained_

_prisoners squabbled like rabid animals over the precious crumbs. It was enough to sustain life, if this existance could be considered such._

_She had sacrificed her last bit of honor when she slapped away an old woman's groping hand for the molded crust. She shoved the bitter crust_

_into her mouth, choking it down with a sullen glare, as she settled back into the few inches of floor to rest her torpid corpse in the collective heap._

_Thoughts of dying were her only comfort, that and the smeared memories of her loved ones as she uneasily dozed, resting her head on her knees,_

_her dark hair shielding her bruised face from the shaft of light when the hatch was being opened. On that day, she groaned herself awake, cringing_

_instinctively as she opened her eyes to see what new torture was coming down the steps._

_She watched in disbelief to see the bright scarf roped over midnight-shaded hair, the man's bronze face contorted in mute anguish and horror at the_

_cargo hold. The young man openly gaped at the shackled heaps of humanity, before he locked eyes with hers._

_He narrowed them, as he took her in, and she tensed warily as he almost timidly tilted his head, and shook his head in sorrow. She never knew if he_

_was going to kill her, or what horror he would have unleashed, because his staring was interrupted by a grizzled old man with mutton chops and a_

_flask heaved high, mid swallow. The old man waddled down the steps, and abruptly halted when he saw the slaves, his eyes flying wide, and _

_his flask lowered in helpless disbelief._

_"Lor'" It was only breathed in astonishment as Gibbs pivoted to see the wretched mass of humanity, his nostrils curling at the turned, as if _

_seeking direction from his erst-while captain. Jack had gone rigid, his breath tense, and the hatred for what had been done quickening through his_

_veins and settling like fire to his core._

_"Cap'n?" Gibbs lay an almost timid hand on Jack's sleeve, attempting to dredge him back from whatever was making that agony fill his eyes_

_and leaving him in that stricken, sickening silence._

_A hiss of breath, from golden teeth, and those dark eyes shimmering with something akin to tears as Jack only swallowed and shook his head._

_He raised eyes skyward, his palms rising as if seeking absolution before he lowered his face back to the hell around him. The grizzled man stood_

_gawking, before the black headed man gave a single, curt order. "Unshackle them. All of them."_

_Gibbs eyed the slaves dubiously. "NOW!" Jack's single word was like a whiplash as he helplessly clapped a hand over his forehead, closed his eyes._

_Gibbs lingered for a long moment, before he simply nodded in agreement, and gestured towards the stairs. "I'll fetch the keys." _

_He fled up the dark stairwell as if he were being chased. Gibbs had mercifully interrupted Jack's guilt as he simply held up a row of keys._

_Warily Gibbs ventured, "Ye do know that they be naught but property, and by not deliverin' the goods, you'll bloody suffer for it?"_

_Jack turned those ravaged eyes to Gibbs. "I'll not hold ye responsible, Gibbs. You're not answerable to me. But I'll be damned before I engage in this..._

_wickedness." Jack flung out a splayed hand, letting it ghost over the wretched human cargo._

_Gibbs only swallowed hard, nervously bit his lip, as he grumbled with a hitch of his shoulder, "Ye've picked a fine time to indulge in a do-goodin'_

_turn, Jack. What's to become of all of 'em, then?" Jack sighed, and forced a smile. "We've not sailed too far from their shore, have we? We can belay _

_making berth a bit and just let 'em loose back to their own lands."_

Norrington's farewell to his men was cruelly abrupt, and without any rational explanation. He felt their sense of betrayal as he fought

the impulse to scream out the truth, hurl it like rocks to shatter the walls that were building between them. Gillette's eyes were bright with fever, the smile on the verge of crumbling as he raised a trembling hand to his sweating temple in salute. Norrington had spent the fleeting moments after that horrific meeting between that cursed sea-wench and Beckett watching them snipe back and forth, his eyebrows rising higher and higher. Beckett seemed to treat her with condensending, amused tolerance. She was feral, vicious as a treed panther, and held enough rancor against Jack Sparrow

to propel them over the ocean by hatred alone, if it were possible. She had only given Norrington a few fleeting glances of disgust,

followed by an unspoken sneer. Beckett had only pursed his lips, shook his head rather boredly, and gave Mercer the

curt order to see Norrington back to his 'sleeping chamber.' Norrington had hopes that he would at least be allowed to see how his men

fared, particularly Gillette. That simple request was answered by Mercer's cruel smirk and a pointed glance at his pistol. Norrington

shuddered at the unspoken threat, and feeling futile and absolutely enraged, simply strode into the empty 'sleeping chamber,' in

silence.

The room was humble, a simple bed with clean linens, a well-tended oil lamp, a bright arch of moonlight through the window. Norrington,

alone at last, stripped of everything he held dear, guilt-ridden and nearly shattering, slowly lowered himself onto the

bed. His troubled thoughts, numbed by the lack of sleep and the strained nerves, felt like boulders as they rolled around his

skull. He closed his eyes against the tears, his fists burrowing into the linen, his prayers feeling woefully inadequate, and his

soul's aching guilt wrenching. Panting, he allowed himself the luxury to slump against the bed at last, his rigid, wary posture

finally yielding to the strain and exhaustion. At long last, Norrington lost the war to keep his eyes open. Just as his tortured

thoughts rose in accusation again, he fell into a dreamless slumber, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ocean.

Meanwhile....

Annamaria idly watched the moonlight over the water, its fractured archs of white shattering over the churning tide. The sea seemed uneasy

as well, as she only sighed and leapt from her perch on the deck, her bootheels silent as she raked the dark hair from her forehead. She

startled when the sentry on guard duty groped for his rifle. She lowered her pistol to his throat, her fear twisting her mouth into a dark

promise as she only cocked her head, waiting. Beckett had apparently given his men strict orders to leave her be, because he only

dipped his head, muttered an apology, and hastily strode back into that rigid line he was walking over the deck.

The shock of meeting Norrington, and seeing him so broken, the strain of navigating the treacherous moods of Beckett, and her

unease at being with all of the King's Own left her already short grip of self-control dangerously frayed. The news of the Pearl's escape

made her heart swell.

Exhaling her shuddering breath, she stowed the pistol back into her boot, relieved and troubled at the same time. She felt almost

a fool aboard this wretched, seething cage of a ship, her very existance an ever sharpening wedge between the freedom she had lost,

and the sick way she had been forced to shackle herself to Beckett to regain her life. She knew that they all held her in contempt. She was

dark-skinned, a woman, unfettered and unbroken, and she feared being taken more than she feared dying to keep the precious scrape

of chance she now had. She bit back the chuckle that almost flooded from her throat, as well as the tears. Either one seen would shatter

the veneer of her being nothing but irrational, feminine fury, and that could not be. She hated it-both being so easily dismissed due to her gender,

and her inability to be caged by corset and duty, were she of the paler skin, but her refusal to be shackled and enslaved on no basis other

than her station, and her skin. She knew that Beckett only tolerated the usurping because he believed himself to be superior in wit, and

station, and therefore, all the more blind for it. She had been hardened by the brutality of the life she lived, and almost died for on more

than one occasion, but she cringed inwardly at what vengence Beckett would mete out if he knew of her betrayal. He was icy calculation,

implied threats, shrewd. She sighed again, looking skyward. "Ye daft pirate, I hope I can save ye....." It was the closest prayer she could

utter in the gloaming emptiness. Tomorrow, she would set out on her path, with that ponce Norrington out on the open ocean. She hated him.

The Antigone suddenly lurched upward, and she scowled as she bucked at the unexpected shift. She even hated Beckett's ship, and the

antipathy seemed mutual. Norrington was rigid, and viciously duty-bound, but from the scant dealings she had with the man, she knew

his idolatrous sense of honor, if not his disgust with her status, would likely protect her from any real harm from his hand. She sneered

at the thought, as her pistol felt cold and comforting in her hand.

She allowed a snort at the irony. Beckett probably viewed her as nothing more than a spewing vessel of rage against Jack Sparrow, ready to be

poured out to drown him. Anamaria had certainly snarled out enough curses about Jack Sparrow to be viewed as simply a woman scorned,

a whining shrew who wanted vengence against a vanishing lover. She drummed her fingers against the railing, with a sigh. It was simply easier

to allow the world its assumptions, than attempt an explanation, even to herself. Jack had entered her life like a tidal wave, altering everything in

its wake, lifting her out of the depths, and liberating her from the literal chains she once wore.

And, in those dark moments of indecision, when she was staring back at the gloaming shore that was being swallowed by the water, when her doubts

were clawing at her and she felt uncertain tears rising, Jack did not mock them. He only offered an understanding smile, and a proffered hankerchief with an almost courtly bow.

"'s always hard, the leaving. It doesn't matter how much the sea swallows the heart, it's a bitter parting to leave what you've known." It was spoken

with sorrow, as he only stared at the water, one hand clenched against the rigging's ropes, as if he needed to hold onto something she could not

name.

"And if ye don't miss anything you leave behind?" She jutted her wrist towards him, the darker indention from the old shackle's scars almost as

dark as the look he gave her. Jack blinked, glanced down at her wrist, and shrugged.

"Then that's a sorrowful thing, love, to hold nothing but hate and memories. Tis a much harder thing to hate what you leave than love it." He gave her

a sad, knowing smile, before he ambled along his way, the solemn wisdom of the moment's vapor vanishing as he clapped a hand over her shoulder in

finality.

Jack had somehow woven himself into the fabric of her very being, like a noose, or a tether, and she did not know which one he was any more. She did

know that he was her friend, he had saved her life, and she was here on the mad gamble that she might return the favor. Beckett, she knew, would kill

him if he ever got the chance. Anamaria just sighed, and cupped her chin, staring upward at the stars. The Pearl was out underneath those celestial

watchers, and that thought gave her a bit of comfort.


	19. Adrift

_Mere snatches of the soft, troubled speech around him fell into his stupor like rancid rain, as he lay,sweat-soaked and unblinking, _

_his fever-smeared eyes resuming their glazed study of the Pearl's crossbeams. Jack heard Gibbs' worried muttering, as the old man_

_uneasily dabbed a soaked rag against his slimed brow, as he attempted to wipe away some of the perspiration with another biting_

_sigh. Jack didn't wave him away, didn't grouse irritation at being treated as an invalid, he did not even flinch. Gibbs shook his head,_

_as he settled himself back to resume his lonely vigil. Gibbs took another long, comforting swig from his flask, and set it down carefully,_

_his dark thoughts still cruelly undulled. Gibbs tiredly hooked a few strands of grey hair behind his ear, and gave Jack_

_another rueful shake of his head._

_Jack had toppled in a dead swoon after that foolish attempt to stand. Gibbs had snatched him in a panic when he saw those dark_

_eyes rolling heavenward, as Jack wilted into the faint. Gibbs had bellowed like a stuck bull, rousing a few of the crew within_

_ear shot, as they scurried down to the Captain's quarters. Gibbs was still awkwardly holding Jack upright,but with the help_

_of Cotton, they gently lowered Jack onto the mussed sheets, again. Cotton gave Jack a sorrowful look, and an almost apologetic_

_one to Gibbs as he bolted to the deck, as Gibbs gaped. Moments later, Cotton came lumbering back, with a bucket of clean water,_

_and a fist full of assorted rags. Setting the bucket down, Cotton held one of them out to Gibbs. Gibbs took it, lip pursing in uneasy confusion. _

_"Now, Mr. Cotton, I'm hardly a nursemaid !"_

_The two men stood in that heavy silence, turning their troubled eyes to Jack when they heard his low moan of pain, and watched as_

_he twisted fretfully from the heat. Gibbs shook his head, and turned to Cotton. "But, I'll tend him, nary the less."_

_Cotton drew himself up, tilted his head in a sharp jerk towards Jack, and then dipped his cloth in the bucket. Shaking his head, he_

_brushed Gibbs aside as he knelt beside Jack, and started mopping away the sheen of sweat over his forehead. Cotton grunted_

_in disapproval, and before Gibbs could stop him, Cotton gripped the faded bandana, and gently loosed it from Jack's head, with_

_a grimace. Gibbs bit back the protest, feeling as if the simple action was somehow stripping away Jack's flesh. It seemed violating. Jack_

_grimaced, and moaned, but did not stir. Cotton lay the wet, dripping rag across Jack's crinkled brow like a funeral wreath, his hand lingering, before_

_he shook his head, helplessly._

_Gibbs swallowed hard, awkwardly, as he groped uselessly for words of reassurance. " 'S a bit of a fever, Cap's had much more fierce_

_hurts, and he's always been fine."_

_Cotton only nodded, and gave Gibbs a tolerant smile as he rose. "Ye can get back to yore duties, Cotton, I'll tend to his fever."_

_'Tending the fever' was a hopeless task of only listening to Jack's hitching breath, soothing away a nightmare if the delirium rose high,_

_forcing a few gurgled sips of water over those clenched jaws, and attempting to wash the fever's heat away with those rags. It had been_

_three days of a few of his deliriums,Jack shuddered underneith those well-meaning hands that kept him down and uninjured, as _

_he trembled before fainting again. Gibbs remembered Jack's helpless fury, the thrashing of his limbs as he were drowning, and the dark _

_abyss of memories that spewed forth from the fever in an incoherent slur. Jack had struggled like a drowning man, then, and Gibbs did_

_not know how to save him. Now, Jack lay still, almost serene, as his breathing turned from those panting chokes to fading sighs. Gibbs_

_cringed at the narrowing difference between that fevered slumber, and the finality of death._

_)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))_

Beckett had wasted no time in delivering the curt orders for a vessel to be prepared for Norrington and Anamaria. Anamaria scowled at the

'vessel' with distaste. Compared to the Pearl, or even the Antigone's bloated opulance, it was little more than a clapboard dinghy with a single

masted sail. Men hastily scurried over the gainplank, loading the boat with supplies, carefully dodging her dark glower with lowered heads and

muttered apologies if they accidently brushed against her. Anamaria had not moved from her bobbing perch aboard the dinghy, and did nothing

but glare and grunt out an order when necessary. Mercifully, Beckett had seemed to persuade the crew to load with the greatest haste. Anamaria

was glad of that, as it meant less time aboard the cursed Antigone. Anamaria was looking forward to the sight of open water, and Beckett's intolerable

preening to vanish in the horizon. It was truly a revolting thing to her, to see that white-wigged prissy bird prancing about the deck as if he owned the world.

Her heart seized within her at those last words. Beckett already ruled the ocean, did he not?

She had to press a hand over her mouth to quench the snarl. She continued her callous survey. Norrington had marched his slow, reassuring pace

between the small gathering of his crew, gracing them with a smile, giving them stern orders, praising the wounded with a kind regard. Anamaria

watched as he extended his hands, as if bestowing a blessing, and the thought made her snort in amusement. It was a maudlin display, in complete

contrast to his usually irritating regard for propriety. Anamaria's scowl deepened when she saw the genuine remorse of Norrington's men as they bid

him farewell. They had not spoken since that loaded, terse meeting in Beckett's chambers. She had given him a warning glance, a toss of her dark hair,

spun on her boot heel, and stormed away.

Beckett only chuckled in amusement, as he took another sip of tea, and peered at Norrington over the rim of that fine china. "A fiery spirit in a woman is

often the most submissive once it is properly quenched, my good Commodore. You might do well to remember that." Norrington's face flamed at the

implications of that statement, but he managed to depart from Beckett before he had to answer.

And, now, in the wanning time he had left aboard the Antigone, he was spending those moments giving his glib reassurances that sounded brightly

false even to his own ears. Gillette managed a faltering attempt at a believing smile, before he peered at the bobbing dinghy with a shudder, and another

smile when he saw Norrington's pondering gaze. Beckett had kept his word about his treatment of Norrington's men, and Gillette was slowly recovering

after a few nights in a dry bed, and food. His arm was bandaged and tucked away in the sling, but Gillette was almost cheerful about his optimism in recovering

its use. Mercifully, the break was clean, and it seemed very likely he would have some abilty to use his hand when the bone properly mended.

Their good-byes and farewells were interrupted by the familiar, clipped gliding of Beckett's boots as he strode onto the top deck, tucked palms to the small of his

back and graced them all with a benign, cruel smile.

"As touching as these fare-wells may be, they are both unnecessarily long, and delaying. Commodore Norrington, I hate to revisit a painful subject, but may I

remind you that the survival of your crew depends on your success in apprehending Sparrow."

Norrington nodded curtly, gave his men a last glance and a serene smile before he stepped away from them. Anamaria leapt down from her perch, and landed

by Norrington abruptly. He flinched, and gave her a sideways glance before turning back to face Beckett. Beckett gave them both a mocking flourish of his hand

a wide sweeping arch over the ocean ending with a casual jab of his palm towards the dinghy. Anamaria gave Norrington a long, challenging glare, as he stepped

out of her way, with a scowl. She glided past him, hovered for a moment at the rigging, and then leapt onto the dinghy with the grace of a deer.

Norrington raised his eyes skyward, said a quick prayer for God's mercy, and then deftly boarded, without even causing a ripple. Anamaria was already busy

tying off the sail, and he gave a last sharp salute to his men. His heart swelled when he saw that every one of them dofted their hats in respect.

Anamaria grunted behind him, as she hefted the rope and attempted to steer the rudder into the wind. Norrington was silent as he took the coil of rope,

expertly tied it, and then strode to her side. She snarled at his aid in getting the sails open, and he gave her a dark stare, his lips forming a white, bitter line.

Sighing, he tiredly spoke, "Miss, while I am sure we share a mutual rancor for each other, we will have several more opportunities to indulge it later. I think

we can both agree that we wish to put as much distance between Beckett and ourselves as possible."

Anamaria regarded him with a raised eyebrow, and gave the Antigone' another stare. She simply nodded to Norrington,and together, they propelled the boat

away from that hated ship.


	20. Disjointed

They had been watching each other with a carefully cultivated indifference between them, though Norrington felt Anamaria's eyes

much like a sheep might feel the teeth of a wolf. They had set off on their forced sojourn together a few hours before, as Norrington

gave his men his best reassurances that he would return, and Anamaria only snarled that she'd cut the tether and let Beckett

sort the mess left in her wake if he didn't board. He only gave her a stern, proper scowl, and then elegantly leapt over the rail.

She scowled in return, they both warily stared at each other, she huffed in annoyance, and turned away to set the sails, while

he gave a resigned shrug and raised a hand in farewell to his crew.

And, so, they were off, in more ways than one, with nothing more than a few curt, necessary words spoken. Soon, the Antigone

was engulfed in the horizon, and the distance between Norrington and all he lost grew more acute with each wave. To Anamaria's

irritation, Norrington stood and stared at the disappearing ship as if he had said good-bye to a beloved. He flinched at her grunt, startled

and blinking in the high sunlight, bewildered for a moment. She scowled up at him, gestured sharply with the rope in her hands.

"Moping about like a cabin-boy missing his ma won't help ye get back to 'em." Her words were more shrill than she meant them to be,

as Norrington only sighed deeply, and nodded. "Indeed." And to her dismay, Norrington stooped beside her, took his half of the rope, and

expertly tied the sail in one fluid motion. Norrington resumed his stare at the empty water when the sea calmed, his hands

properly tucked at the small of his back, his spine rigid, though he only wore the tattered remains of his former military garb.

He turned to her, his eyes unreadable, his mouth a thin line of scrutinizing distaste at the question.

"Do you know how to find Sparrow?"

Anamaria stiffened at that, and nodded curtly. "Aye. I know that daft man's ways." Norrington raised an eyebrow, but did not

venture to ask in what horrendous way that the woman "knew the daft man." Anamaria tilted her head to the side, narrowed

her eyes, and gave Norrington a level stare. After a long moment, she put her hands on her hips, and snarled, "Don't be assuming

that all women lose their sense to 'im. Jack fancies his charm to be enough, and just t'isn't so. The man owes me a boat, and

he'll naught be payin' that bill with anything less."

Norrington's alarm grew considerably when she gave the knife at her belt a loving caress with a wicked smile. Norrington sighed

without impatience as he considered her, grimly. "I will leave you to mete out whatever vengence you find suitable, Miss. My

only concern is finding that miscreant so that I may regain the safety of my crew, and a chance at returning home."

Anamaria snorted at that, and shook her head with a broken chuckle. "You be as daft as Jack if ye believe that Beckett' will keep

'is word about keepin' yore crew breathin', Commodore. That man is wicked, and he ain't bound to any promise made."

Norrington sighed heavily, narrowed his icy eyes, and strode to breach the distance between them until he towered over her. Anamaria

instinctively stepped back, hiding the wince of fear when she felt the railing pressing against her back. Norrington's voice was chilled

restraint as he stared down at her. "If this man is not bound by any promise because of his wickedness, then what does that make you?"

He towered over her, the long shadows of the wanning light casting even darker hints of things too horrendous to contemplate as her hand

instinctively clutched the blade at her side. They stared at each other, Norrington's silent rage, and Anamaria's growing terror, as she

finally choked up the word, "Pirate." It was a gutteral hiss, scraped out and wan.

Norrington shuddered as if startled, shook off that heavy confusion with the sudden tremble, flushed when he realized that he was towering over

her, felt ashamed when he saw that fear in her eyes. With a surrendering spread of his arms, he seemed to wilt, hesitantly taking a step

backwards, as she slumped in relief, the blade slightly shaking in her clenched fingers. Norrington heard her sharp inhalation, as she turned away.

She heard his heavy, apologetic sigh, emerging from the aftermath like an absolution, as he bowed his head. "Please accept my apologies

for causing you alarm. I give you my word that you've nothing to fear from me." The chivalrous words were contrite as Anamaria ventured

a warning glare over her shoulder. "I give ye my word ye've plenty to fear from me, Commodore, if ye ever break your word on that."

Norrington inwardly chafed from the unspoken meaning, but he was almost serene as he gave her a slight bow. "You may rest assured that you

are safe. I will do you no harm, I give you my word as an officer."

Anamaria went rigid with seething rancor, as she only shook her head, as she suddenly ripped the cloth away, and shoved the vicious, charred scar  
inches from his face. Norrington flinched when he saw the brand, the ugly, burned black letter adorning her arm. She lowered her head, her

eyes searing into his, as she quietly snarled, "Twas an officer that gave me this. Thought he could own me, and break me. I killed 'im for it."

Norrington swallowed back the horror, eyes widening, as he shook his head slowly. "Why did he brand you?" The question was breathed in

disbelief as Anamaria lowered her wrist, lips curling into a broken sneer. "I committed no crime, but being born a woman, and a dark one at that."

Norrington's face twisted as if he were in pain. "I...am sorry." Anamaria snorted, but only shook her head with another brittle chuckle. "Ye ever

own another person, Commodore? Ye ever wonder what'd be like to under the lash and the noose, to be bound all yore days for no reason,

other than one man thinks he's right in owning another? It's a funny thing, Commodore...tisn't men that ever think like that. Tis only women

and slaves that truly _know."_

She lingered there, her eyes scathing, her proud, bitter smirk wise and ugly from the chafing of the past as she only crossed her arms, and resumed

her measuring glower. Norrington drew himself back, uncomfortably certain that she found him lacking. Sighing, he ran a tired hand through the oily

strands of dark hair, and gave her a resigned, defensive shrug. "I never owned a slave, nor mistreated a woman. And if you were attempting to align

me with the ilk of men who derive pleasure from _owning_ anybody, I certainly do not."

She tilted her chin, and snarled, "Then why did the Governor's daughter choose Turner, if she felt like ye weren't owning her?" His whole frame

spasmed as if he had been stabbed, his contrite expression was swallowed up in the suddenly grim, unrevealing mask as he only glared down at

her for a long moment. "I let Elizabeth go." He shut his eyes, drew another shaking breath before he continued, each word infused with rebuke and

regret, "I let _Sparrow_ go." A flicker of uncertainty, as she considered that, before her hardened suspicions rose again.

"Ye wanted to kill him. Ye hunted him down, and betrayed him, even after he handed Barbossa to ye. Seems daft that ye'd let him go, and even

moreways that ye'd expect me to believe that."

"As _daft_ as believing you have nothing but Sparrow's best interest at heart when you made a bargain with Lord Beckett to capture him?" Norrington

raised an eyebrow as he shook his head.

______________________________________________________________________________


	21. Jack's Back

A/N: Italics are Jack's thoughts and dreams....

_It was the savage kiss of wind that made his heart swell, but her searing kiss that set fire to his flesh. It was his last night ashore,_

_his last time on land, his last time here. Her hair was pearled by the moonlight, her eyes deep with understanding and fond_

_acceptance as she glided across the floor, waltzed through his fevered dreams, and serenely stepped into Jack's waiting embrace._

_Lingering, she raised one hand to the comb of her hair, as Jack only smiled softly, and gently cupped her palm in his own._

_"Let me." She nodded, tilted her head, and Jack sighed as his fingers laced through the mass of snarled blond, and tenderly_

_released the cascade of hair, watching it tumble down her shoulders. He entwined one strand between his fingers, let them glide_

_from her forehead to her cheek, and then lay his hand on her shoulder. She gave him a coy smirk, bucked against the_

_bed with a wink._

_"You've spent a pretty bit o' shine just to play with me hair, sir. Is that *all* ye wish to do?"_

_She never saw that lingering sadness in Jack's dark eyes as he forced the tired grin, and shook his head with a biting chuckle._

_"I believe it's my coin, love, to spend as I wish. What's it to ye if I just want company and no more?"_

_She eyed him for a moment, then with a resigned hitch of her shoulders, mechanically slid back into his arms. "Aye, tis true, tis very true._

_I just expected a bit more from ye, that's all."_

_Jack's fingers tightened against her shoulder, involuntarily, and she felt him shudder. "Aye, love....you and the rest of this world."_

________________________________________________________________

_Of all the ways to die, Jack sincerely wished it hadn't been like this. Of all the ways his last minutes on earth should have been spent,_

_it wasn't supposed to be like this, either. His hands were bound, his back straight as he watched the crowd, unflinching. Somewhere_

_in the paraphets, he knew that Elizabeth and Norrington were watching the proceedings with all the pomp the upperclass could afford._

_It was a sad, sad thing, to hang a man, but it was a savage thing to be entertained by it. There was a perversely festive air to the _

_crowd, as they all watched him, as he slowly made his way up the wooden steps, and was halted by the guard's hands. The noose_

_dangled in front of him like a pendleum, and Jack watched it sway in the slight wind, his lip curling in rancor._

_Would they give him a last glance at the ocean? He raised eyes to the brick walls of the fortress, and smelt the brine of the sea on_

_the wind. It felt like a parting kiss, as Jack wearily bowed his head in acceptance of the noose. The guard indifferently draped it _

_around his throat like a perverse necklace, sliding the knot down to the back of Jack's neck. Jack watched those black boots_

_march back to his flank, saw that gloved hand latch onto the platform's lever with a punishing grip. The magistrate had just finished_

_reading the long, drab list of Jack's crimes against the Crown as Jack studied the sky, and gave them all a faltering, cheeky grin._

_"May God have mercy on your soul." The words were droned out, as the magistrate rolled up his scroll, gave them all a curt nod of_

_permission, and then went on his way. Jack heard the sudden, loud roll of the drums, felt the hands of the guard check the knot one_

_more time. And then, the guard triggered the trap door._

_Severed. The world gave way, the platform beneath him fell down, and he plummetted into the empty air for a moment, before he was_

_savagely jerked upwards by the reverberation of the was the animalistic snarl, the instinctive, empty gasp as his lungs_

_ceased and the coil tightened until Jack was flopping like a speared fish in agony. The last sound he made was the strangled grunt_

_as his final breath was heaved out. His lungs contorted in his chest, he could not breathe, and the blinding pain and darkness was_

_rolling over him in an all consuming wave of confusion and agony._

Jack bolted awake.

The cloying weakness felt like a noose, constricting every movement to only what was necessary. The fever had laced every thought in

his throbbing skull with confusion, and the aching dark of his cabin clung to him like an unwanted cacoon. And, now,

as Jack swaddled in the sweated sheets of his bed, he blinked at the swaying lantern, paying no heed to the bright circle

haloing his wan, brittle face. It had been a week of searing, feverish hell, and he remembered little of that agonized blur

except being helpless, and held during the worst of it. He remembered a kind hand dabbling away his sweat, the twisted grimaces

of concern as the crew gawked at their stricken captain, Gibb's paternal grunts of concern, Cotton's silent compassion when

he held Jack upright during the vomiting. Jack swallowed hard, and winced at the raw, scraped sensation. He had lingered in that

netherworld of sickness and dreams, and his slow liberation from the fever breaking was disorienting.

Night had fallen, the scent of the brine on the water was as welcome as a beloved caress. He stared out at the celestial blanket

of moonlight against the endless black, savoring the stillness.

It was peaceful now, the soft roar of the ocean, and the creak of the Pearl's hull sounded like a lullaby, as Jack shoved the sheets away,

and slowly slid upright. His breath hitched at the warning flare of pain at his shoulder, and he winced as he paused, before he carefully

braced the arm on his knee. The dull ache throbbed down to a more bearable level. He lurched carefully over the edge of the bed,

grunting with the pain and gently unrolled his hunched back until he was sitting up straight. Blinking and panting with the effort, he

set his quivering legs down, and gripping the wall for leverage, hoisted himself until he stood. The world didn't tilt, and the churning

in his gut had ceased. The dull torpor made his normally quick, lilting stride impossible, and the shaking in his limbs hinted at

a pending collapse. Jack tottered forward, feeling awkward as a newborn foal. He took a lurching experimental step forward, and then

another.

"Jack!!"

Jack flinched in suprise at the loud shouting of his name, and he tilted his head over his shoulder, squinting in the wan light. Gibbs was

already at his side, his teeth winked out from the mutton chops, as he crossed his arms with a hearty laugh.

"Yore awake! Glad that ye be back, lad."

Jack raised a prim eyebrow. "Mr. Gibbs, since I've been decidedly ill, and therefore, incapable of complex navigation of any travel outside

my own fever-induced deliriums, I think it nearly impossible that I could have actually gone anywhere....unless I truly did swim to Tortuga

on the back of a mermaid and somehow wound up drinking with the sea turtles this time......" Jack trailed off with a considering squint and

a dismissing shrug as Gibbs only gaped with a tilt of his head, and a confused wrinkle in his forehead.


	22. Treachery

Treachery-----

It truly said much of Lord Cutler Beckett's self-pocession, and egotism to look upon the face of death itself and distainfully sip his tea. He was displeased with both the sopping drips of the sea-muck stained the deck from Davey Jones, and almost overwhelmed with the stench of decay and rotting flotsom, no doubt dredged from the bilge of the Dutchman. He wrinkled his nose, worked his curled lips into a polite, condensending obligation, and gestured gracefully for the dripping monster to be seated. Gilette was miserably perched between the two, and wondering who was truly the monster when he saw Beckett give him a benign, mocking grin. "Do not be distressed about the welfare of your dear Commodore, Mr. Gillette. I would not have sent him forth to retrieve Sparrow if he were not able to do so."

Gillette only gulped, and gave him a hasty bob of his head. Jones eyed him scornfully, with those sea-smeared eyes, and Gillette shuddered, trapped under that baleful gaze. Jones sighed, his tenticles curling in themselves and rising in what looked like contemplation. "Ye should be more troubled that I let him and ye live through that malstrom. 's a wee bit of sweet mercy compared to what's been planned for ye."

Gillette jerked sharply, feeling the insult against Norrington's name like a wound.

"I beg your pardon, but we lived through that hurricane because of Commodore Norrington's skillful navigation, not because you spared us."

It was an insipid rise of pride, breaking just as fast like water over rock as Jones leered and thudded towards him, giving him an appraising look. Before Gillette could even cry out, he found his throat seized between Jone's claw, his entire body lifted off the ground, his breath choked out. Vaguely, he heard Beckett's bored command to release him, and he felt himself slammed into the wall, his broken arm flaring with agony, and he was dropped into a sweating, panting heap.

Beckett drummed his elegant nails against the mahogony desk, cleared his throat for their attention. Giving Gillette another bored smile, he stepped over him, and gave Jones a warning glance. "Your petty differences aside, I believe it best that we get down to business, gentlemen. Mr. Gillette, are you able to rise from the floor, or shall I have Captain Jones assist you?"

Jones grinned smugly as Gillette grunted in pain, mastered himself and uncurled his good arm. Rising, he lurched and nearly fell into the chair. Beckett watched him with detached admiration. He was clearly unwell, and in obvious pain, but was still able to follow orders. That was a good trait, indeed.

"Captain Jones, I hope it is unnecessary to remind in the future of the need for you to restrain yourself. The dead are of no use to me, and the injured are only useful if they live long enough to be so."

Jones shuddered in barely concealed rage, contented himself with a glare, and said nothing. Gillette gaped from man to monster-he was not sure which was the worst now, and nearly flinched at the chilling realization that Beckett was even able to bring Jones under his command like some ill-trained dog. Forehead crinkling in dismay, he wondered what sort of leverage was used to bring the Dutchman itself to heel.

"Mr. Gillette," Beckett continued crisply, "I imagine that you are wondering why you have been summoned here. I believe that you may have some crucial information as to the whereabouts of Jack Sparrow. "

"Sparrah? Jack Sparrah?!" Jones spat the word, as he whirled to face Beckett, enraged. Beckett gave him another smile, and waved him down. "At ease, Captain. I know well that you wish the man dead. Indeed, Captain Jones, I will not deprive you of your chance of vengence against him. You should be thanking me for my assistance in tracking him down."

And both of them turned to Gillette, who inwardly cringed, but outwardly remained unmoved as he strained to unhitch his bent spine, and face them. "I will not betray my captain, or my country for your gain, or your agenda, sir."

Beckett remained expressionless, Jones grunted and looked at Beckett,and then Gillette.

"I admire your candor, and your resolve, Mr. Gillette. However, I'm not asking you to betray anybody. Indeed, I sent your captain out to retrieve Sparrow. Let me assure you that the sooner your captain returns with Sparrow, the sooner you shall be restored to your former station, with nothing left to show for your ordeal but a safe exit, and unpleasant memories."

Gillette grimaced at that.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

The sea was calm, night was approaching, and aside from a few more obligatory, curt exchanges, Norrington and Anamaria were silent. Norrington's chivalrous nature would not allow him to question her more than necessary, and the overwhelming anguish about the fate of his men plagued every thought. His ship was gone, good men were lost and the lives of those remaining were dependent on the mercy of the cruel Beckett, and the shrew he found himself being forced to endure. She was as harsh and brittle as a whiplash when she spoke, she was dismissing of any conversation that did not pertain to their mission of finding Sparrow, but for all of her brutality, she was an apt sailor, and mercifully silent and distant enough to allow Norrington his thoughts.

Anamaria walked the length of the small boat, glaring at the sky, licking her thumb and thrusting it high into the wafting breeze. Norrington flinched when she leapt catlike from the hull to his side in one graceful tumble, and warned him away with her glare. "It will be a calm night." She said curtly, as she folded her arms over her chest and gazed at the sea.

"That will be a welcome change then." Norrington's indifferent comment was emphasized by his hands being tucked behind his back,as he raised his eyes to the ocean. He heard Anamaria sigh behind him, and almost hesitantly stride towards him. He pivoted sharply, and saw her lip curling uncertainly, as she hitched her shoulders, and jabbed a hand below deck.

"I'll be takin' first watch. Go below and get some rest."

Norrington stared at her, dumbly, his disbelieving eyes swerving from the refuge below to the woman before him, as she glared again, and shook her head, sharply.

"Yore no good faintin' like a wench, and yore almost fallin' over board. Commodore...ye ain't no good to yore men dead, and that's how you'll wind up if I have ta tell ye again."

The menace in her eyes was only matched by the unmoved chill that rose in his. Norrington took two steps towards her, towering over her. "And I will not tell you again who shall wind up dead if my men are sacrificed because of your hatred of Sparrow."

There was only the harsh breathing between them, as she glared up and he glared down, locked in that torpor until Anamaria hissed sharply, "Tisn't just Sparrow that I hate."

Norrington sighed, rolled his eyes heavenward, and yielded, slightly, as he gave her a weary, bitter smirk.  
"I believe that you will hate me a great deal more before this ordeal is over, miss." And with that, he stepped aside, and then quietly went below deck, with Anamaria's eyes still following his back.

_________________________________________________________ 


	23. Old Friends

Beckett found himself vaguely disappointed that Gillette neither flinched, nor squirmed, even though he was trapped between the dripping, filthy menace of Jones, and the elegant brutality that of Beckett. Gillette's eyes slid like pendulums between them, warily regarding both of them with well-disguised loathing,mingled with fear. Shuddering from the pain, Gillette swallowed hard, carefully braced his arm against the chair, and forced a false serenity as he turned to face them.

"What information would you be requiring, sirs?" Gillette's voice was clipped, chilled and as distainful as he could safely show. "Regrettfully, I am afraid that I won't be able to provide you with much information, but I give you my word that I will answer honestly about what knowledge I have."

Gillette uneasily watched as Beckett regarded him. Gillette cringed inwardly, feeling woefully inadequate in either matching wits, or lying. He was truthful to a fault, and felt like a teething whelp stealing meat from wolves. So, he swallowed back his fear, and waited in that horrific silence as Beckett only gave him a cool, level stare, placidly unrevealing, that knowing, malicious smirk gracing his lips again. Jones grunted at that, hefted himself forward, tenticles weaving in their aggitated coils.

"I don' trust ye. First, ye be willin' to die for yore precious cap'n, and *now* ye suddenly wish to blurt all ye know? Why?"

And Gillette found himself peering into those abysmal eyes again as Beckett boredly cleared his throat, propped his chin up with one frilly sleeve and gazed at him. "Captain Jones *does* raise a valid point, Mr. Gillette. A satisfactory answer would give credence to your rather abrupt change of heart."

Gillette forced himself to take two measured breaths, lay his hands carefully in his lap, and drew himself up.  
Pretending a calm he could not feel, and calling upon answers he did not have, he faced them. Softly, he answered, with both a proper mix of deferrence and defiance, "With all due respect to you, sirs, please accept my reassurances that I have no change of heart, nor any abrupt shifting in my wishes. My concern, from the moment that Lord Beckett salvaged us from the Calliopie, to the moment that Commodore Norrington left, is the safety of my fellow soldiers, and that of my captain. Lord Beckett, you wish to capture Sparrow. I only want the safe return of my captain, and my crew to be homebound as soon as possible. I don't see how those goals are mutually exclusive. I am sick, injured, and completely at your mercy, Lord Beckett. I have neither anything to bargain with, nor any reason for treachery."

Jones grunted at that speech in irritation, and Beckett narrowed his eyes as he continued his scathing appraisal of Gillette. Beckett was momentarily confounded, because Gillette had spoken the truth, and had given them both irrefutable reasons for doing so. Gillette was simply concerned with his captain's return, no more and no less. Jones snarled uneasily, glancing at Beckett as if seeking some sort of direction. Finding none, Jones tilted his head, eyes squinting into glittering suspicion as he thudded forward. Gillette mastered his flinch as Jones towered over him, his tenticles flaring inches from his throat, as if he wanted to wrench his very existance into oblivion.

"I don't believe ye." It was lilting dismissal, curt and brutal as Beckett smoothly shifted to peer at Jones, not even troubling to rise from his seat.

"At ease, Captain Jones." Beckett said, silkingly with another benign smile that did not reach his eyes. " I do believe that Mr. Gillette is wise enough to see the advantages of....cooperation. I think it would be most beneficial that you do the same."

Jones stiffened at the rebuke, but said nothing, as he turned that murderous glare to Gillette. Gillette shuddered under the renewed weight of their eyes. "Mr. Gillette, I would appreciate an account of the events from the time of Sparrow's capture from Isle De Muerta to the failed attempt of his execution."

Gillette raised eyebrows at the request and cautiously ventured to ask, "Lord Beckett, may I ask what details you want, specifically? I had few dealings with Sparrow personally, and those unfortunate encounters took place after he was captured and on his way back to Port Royal to face the penalty for his crimes."

"While I admire your honesty about the nature of your dealings with Sparrow, I am well aware of his actions, and know the man far better than most of the Royal Navy, Mr. Gillette. Forgive me, but Sparrow's miraculous deliverance holds little interest to me. I wish to hear more about what transpired between the Calliopie and the Pearl."

With that prompt, Gillette wearily recounted the full anguish of that encounter. He told them of the nearly mirror-stilled surface of the ocean, and the Pearl casually gliding almost within range of their guns. Gillette omitted Norrington's orders to fire the first shot. He spoke of Norrington's orders to pursue the Pearl, the gaping maul of the storm, and the fierce battle for their queeried as to why Norrington broke off pursuit after seeing the Pearl so clearly for the bit back an indignant sneer, and carefully explained that the the sudden viciousness of the storm was of such a nature, it would have been suicide. And, with a weary hitch of his shoulders, he explained that by then, the Calliopie's hull had been breached, and she was already sinking. Jones stared at his wounded arm, pointedly, and then barked out a demand to hear how that had happened. Gillette briefly glossed over that unpleasant event, but took the chance to emphasize Norrington's heroics in pulling him from the watery grave that awaited. Jones chuckled bitterly at that.

"He shoulda left ye to me."

Gillette blanched at the cruel words, as Beckette only gave a silky, perverse laugh as well. "Captain Jones, Mr. Gillette seems to be every bit the slawart soldier. I don't feel he would take you up on your kind offer of saving his life in exchange for sailing under your orders. However, you may very get your chance to see what Mr. Gillette's answer would be."

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Night had fallen, and the ocean's soft lull gently rocked the Pearl beneath Jack as he lay blinking and contemplating the deckboards that made the ceiling of his cabin. It had been a long, wearying day. Jack forced himself to rise from his sick bed, and grinned that reassuring, cocky grin until his teeth ached. Mercifully, aside from a few concerned glances from Gibbs and Cotton, nobody mentioned the horror of the last week to him. Jack ached and moved his taxed muscles with a wince. His resurection from that horrible fever had been wonderfully abrupt, but the cloying weakness of illness and injury left him feeling disconcertingly frail. The scars-a large, raised line of flesh crowning his shoulder-left a hated reminder of how vulnerable he could be.

Gibbs had given him several paternal grunts of disapproval whenever he thought that Jack was exerting himself, as Jack flitted and tormented like some tropical bird, lighting over the deck, the wheel, making his grandiose plans to hide his fear. Jack had managed to dodge the scrutiny of his crew with a few well-placed, distracting smiles and reassurances. Cotton and Gibbs- being the only two who had witnessed how truly close to death he had been- remained mercifully silent about the sorrid, embarrassing illness. Jack remembered precious little, but he did remember crying like a whipped wench when the memories seared through his fever and raving all the dark things he held in the safe confines of his soul during the delirium.  
Gibbs had been witness to a few of those moments before they became memories. Both of them were true sailors, preferring to leave such things alone and unspoken, like how Jack had gotten his scars, or the full horror of being unfleshed in the moonlight in that cursed cave. It was those reasons that Gibbs tolerated so many of Jack's foppish mood swings, and always seemed to know when the rum would be appreciated the most. Neither knew if it was to make those dogged memories more blurred, and bearable, or if it was simply two friends who stood in silent fellowship taking sips and just watching the sea. Jack's head ached, as he gingerly shifted to find a less painful position. Various moments of pain splintered in dull torment over his body, but it was nothing like the tidal wave of drowning agony when that wooden dagger was removed. And, as long as Jack heeded himself, he could move about as he pleased.  
And now, on that languid edge of slumber and awareness, he yawned and waited to fall asleep.

It was the rancid stench of bilge water and festering sea-muck that first disturbed his drifting. It was the odd sound of water dribbling to the floor that propelled him into awareness,and it was the soft hissing of his name that roused him. Jack slowly slid his dark eyes open, waved away whatever troubled him with one swat of his bejeweled hand, and curled deeper into the sheets with a grunt. And suddenly, Jack felt something cold and wet drape itself over his shoulder, and nudge him awake. He shuddered at the sensation of the dripping cold dribbling over his neck, and jerked upright when he sensed the presence of another in his cabin.

The oil had burned out, leaving its rancid stench and the tinge of smoke in the small confines of his room, there was no light except for the shifting moonlight and the bobbing of lanterns that dangled from their poles over the water. Jack blinked at the dark, stiffened when he saw the random slants of light falling over the black unseen. The Pearl suddenly creaked and Jack flinched in suprise, and then his jaw fell open at the pale, sea-slimed face that was peering down at him, rising like a sickening moon over the confusion. Jack breathed the name in disbelief.

"Bootstrap?" The name was heaved out in anguished recognition as Jack started trembling. That pale face, with the dark hair like mangled seaweed gave Jack a sad, weary grin, and nodded, those milky eyes regarding him warmly as he held out a cold hand. Jack eyed it with raised eyebrows, and almost timidly clasped it, recoiling at the cold. It was holding the hand of a corpse.

"This isn't a dream, is it?" Jack ventured as Bootstrap shook his head sadly. Jack sighed, troubled, but able to put aside the impossibilities for a moment. He gave Bootstrap a long glance from his mucked boots to the sea-flora that was writhing in little watery dribblets over his bent back. Uneasily, Jack slid upright, dofting his boots and hat, as he strode the short distance between himself and his rum. Pulling the cork between gold teeth, he turned over his shoulder to Bootstrap, and jerked his head towards the bottles.  
Bootstrap gave him an appreciative grin as Jack held out the proffered bottle, and they sat and drank as old friends.

Bootstrap gazed around the familiar cabin, the meloncholy longing rising with the lurch of the Pearl over another wave. " 'S a good thing ye got the Pearl, again, Jack. She's always belonged with ye."

Jack gave the dark wood a loving caress. "Aye...she's always been the love of me life."

Bootstrap grimaced as he took a long, delaying sip of the rum, letting the mortal taste linger before he swallowed. Jack noticed that silent anguish as he set his own bottle down, and peered at Bootstrap.

"I find it unlikely that you'd appear after all this time for a friendly chat between old friends. What brought ye here, mate?"

Bootstrap stared into the dark eyes of his former captain, and friend, with a sigh and a bitter shake of his head as he took another draught.

"I never took part in betrayin' ye, Jack. Ye know that." Jack nodded curtly, in rememberance of the mutiny. Out of all his crew, Bootstrap was the only one who had proved himself worthy of Jack's hard-won faith. It was also the night that Jack had been beaten, bound, and then forced to watch as those betrayers shackled Bootstrap to the cannon. Bootstrap had snarled out defiance to the very end, a steady slew of insults and vows of vengance as Jack begged and bargained for his life. It all ended with Barbossa's nod, and the loud, cruel sound of the cannon being swallowed up by the ocean. Bootstrap slid silently from the deck to the abyss in a matter of moments, and Jack stood gaping on the deck at the sudden finality of the whole thing.

Bootstrap raised a tortured glance to the peaceful waves out the window, and shook his head. "It was crushing oblivion, Jack. The ocean's abyss above me, and me chained and drowning but ne'er dying...ne'er free. I know ye fear the noose, Jack, but 'tis a mercy compared to being in the Locker, and ne'er having the endin' to it all. That's why I took Jones' at 'is word, and why I sail under 'im now. I didn't know it at the time, but I just traded one set of chains for another, and I don't think twill e'er be undone."

Jack trembled. "I know ye never betrayed me, mate. You were the only sailor from the Pearl's crew that I count as friend now. I just wish I could have spared you the Locker, mate...'s a bloody, and unjust ending."

Bootstrap nodded, ruefully, with another bitter chuckle. "Aye, tis true, Jack. But, I chose my fate, and there's naught to be done about it now."

Jack sighed sadly. "Then what brings you here?" 


	24. Interlude

Bootstrap flinched at the question, as he set the bottle down on the table with a gentle consideration, before he placed both palms flat, as if to brace himself. He drew himself up, his lips twisting into an forboring line, and gazed out at the dark sea. His words were heavy and harsh to heave out as he raised searing eyes to Jack, lay one hand on his arm to make sure he understood the horrible truth.

"Jones 's comin' after ye, Jack."

There was only silence, broken by Jack's audible gulp and emphasized by his widening eyes and an uneasy hand figiting at the back of his neck. Jack sighed, hitching his shoulders, his dark eyes glittering as he took in the Pearl's drifting, his arm curling almost like an embrace over her crossbeam. His lip curled into a smirk of defiance as he casually flung an arm out over at the ocean.

"And what exactly does ol' fishface plan on doing to me, providing that I've the misfortune of falling into his decidedly slime-ladden, tenticled grip?"

Bootstrap jabbed a cold finger in the air between them towards his own mottled skin, with a pointed glare, the brittle truth flung out with the dripping wet that fell over Jack's skin like a blow.

"What's 'appened to me is a small and passin' mercy compared to what awaits, ye, Jack. Not even the Pearl can outrun the Dutchman, ye know that."

Jack's cocky grin faltered , but he still chuckled softly, as he pat the dark wood. "And what makes you think I intend to outrun him, mate? Surely there's a more equitable solution than my eternal damnation, aye?"

Bootstrap closed his eyes, shook his head, and then raised them towards the heavens as if pleading, before the sorrow rose anew. "Jack...he comes for ye, and he won't stop until he sends the Pearl back to the depths, with ye serving under his banner."

Jack's grin slid away like water as he grimaced distastefully and turned his languid dark gaze to Bootstrap.

"I'd send the Pearl to the bottom of the sea before I ever let that slimy git lay a tenticle on her, and that sea-scab knows it."

Bootstrap shuddered, as if struck. Almost pleading, he waved a dripping hand over the Pearl's expanse, softly hissing, "Then it's the Locker for you, Jack. Ye can't bargain your way out of this!"

Jack hitched a shoulder, crossed his arms, and lay his spine against the bulkhead, tilting his head and peering up at Bootstrap with a weary, cocky grin, as he reached for the bottle, and took a merry swig. "So, here we are, between the metaphorical rock and the metaphysical hard place, aye? Two decidedly unpleasant fates that seem dubiously unavoidable. Do ye know what that means, mate?"

Bootstrap's brow crumpled in confusion as Jack shrugged. "More rum." And Jack tilted the bottle, and gulped it down in one long swallow. Bootstrap quirked an eyebrow, as Jack silently handed him another bottle with an almost apologetic shrug.

"It may not make the situation any better, mate, but it does make it seem a bit more bearable."

Bootstrap's fingers swathed over the sepia glass, ghosted over the cork as that dark, rueful smile lighted his pale lips. "That it does, Jack. That it does."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The unspoken animosity was painfully familiar, as was the misplaced guilt and insult to chivalry. Norrington had woken to Anamaria's

squawk, and blinked, dazed as he heard her irate boots storming up the wooden steps to above deck.

He did not trouble himself with an apology for sleeping, and his scowl deepened when he saw the black sky outside the small

window. Apparently, the pirate had either forgotten the time, or allowed him the mercy of some well-needed rest. The night

was vapid, but pleasantly cool, and the skies were swelling with stars. Norrington rose, donned his boots, belted his sword,

and made a futile attempt to rope his dark hair into some semblance of neatness. He scowled, and settled for combing his

fingers through the greasy strands, and tying it back. His head felt bare without his wig or hat, and his cheeks were already

growing a fine layer of stubble. He grimaced when he caught his reflection.

There was little trace of that stern, regal soldier, who wore propriety as a shield. A scar crowned his left cheek from the sea

battle, and his cheekbones were sharp with shadows from his time adrift at sea with no food. Weariness had edged care-worn

lines around his tense mouth, and his eyes held the story of anguish from losing so many in so short a time. Norrington lay

a quaking palm over the scar, squeezed his eyes shut against the tears at the thought of those noble men being surrendered to the

deep, drew in a shaking breath.

Grimly, he rose. Catering to the loss of what had already happened would do no good for those he could yet save. He draped

his battered coat over his shoulders, and strode up the steps.

Anamaria was lounging across the rigging, and cast him a glare and a dismissing hiss as she leapt down beside him, like a feral

cat.

"'s about time ye woke."

He sighed. "I will take the night watch if you wish to get some rest."

Anamaria eyed him, warily as she folded arms over her chest, and continued her silent glower, though the rancor in her eyes softened

into something slightly less than disgust. Uneasily, Norrington continued. "I want to express my gratitude in allowing me to sleep, though

I wish you had not done so."

Anamaria said nothing, but her eyebrow arched high. "An' what woulda happened if I let ye run yourself til ye went mad from lack of

rest? What good woud ye be to me then?"

Norrington narrowed his eyes, and they faced each other like beasts waiting for the flash of a vulnerable throat. The curt silence

slowly grew heavy with barely concealed uncertainty, and it was finally broken by Anamaria. "If ye think I let ye rest because of

some charitable' notion o' kindness, ye best be thinkin' something else, Commodore. A dead man's not a good crewman. A

tired one is even worse in these seas. Ye best remember that."

And her hand clutched the hilt of her sword pointedly as she swept past him, below deck. Norrington side-stepped her with

a curled lip and a shake of his head. She felt his eyes searing through the back of her skull until she was finally in the

familiar, welcoming dark of the cabin.

She shifted the small pallet into some semblance of comfort, flung her hat to the floor, and latching the door shut.

Tensely, she lowered herself into the flimsy haven of linen, feeling the comfort of the dinghy's peaceful rocking, the roar of

the ocean. She was still wary of Norrington. Though she instinctively knew that for all his prissy adherence to duty, and unflinching

devotion to place, he would do her no harm. She had seen that through his anguish in leaving his men, his refusal to cower before

Beckett, and, however ludicriously, his mad mercy towards Jack when he delayed chase after the hanging.

She smirked at the memory of Jack's ludicrous leap over the cliffs. They had watched his suicidal leap into the water, and she

bit back the scream of anguished rage. Had he escaped the noose only to drown? Gibbs was helplessly watching the water,

torn between the insane impulse to leap over the railing to save his captain. She waited for those long moments, her nails

digging into her bleeding palms, barely breathing because she had clenched her jaws so tight from the horrible waiting.

The crew watched, helplessly over the still water, and she wondered if Jack had somehow broken his body over the rocks that

lay like jagged daggers beneath the churning surface.

When she thought her heart would stop beating from the tension and the fear, and the waiting, she heard Gibbs bellow and

jab a fat finger into the glimmering horizon. Jack emerged from the depths, paddling along side the Pearl like a dog, grinning.

"Kindly fetch me a flask and some rope, gents! And be quick. Despite the deceptive appearances of my ability to stay afloat, I've not

sprouted fins. And it would be a bloody shame to escape the noose only to drown."

They hauled him aboard, surrounded him with glad-handing, disbelieving looks, and Jack continued his bright banter, between

swigs of rum. He ordered the docked sails open, and the Pearl, having caught the breeze, also caught her wings, and almost

flew over the waters on that day.

Now, though, she was adrift in treacherous waters, and troubled thoughts, as she twisted fretfully in the hammock. Sleep

was elusive, and she had hoped that the lull of the ocean would soothe away her uncertain anguish for at least a few hours

of oblivion. She sighed in frustration. It was simply not to be. Beckett's benign, malicious face haunted her memory as she

stared at the silver gloaming over the water. From the few, tense exchanges that she had forced herself to endure with the

Commodore, the Pearl had emerged from the malestrom, and was somewhere underneath the same troubled skies she was

now staring at. The Pearl-and Jack with her- had apparently escaped the fury of the Royal Navy.

And, considering the wrath and attention that Beckett was paying the black ship and her erst-while captain, Jack was still

far out of Beckett's grasp. Anamaria sighed at that thought as well, and only hoped she could keep it that way, and live long

enough to be free.


	25. The Kraken

Rancor-

Gillette lay his throbbing skull against the welcome softness of his pillow, and tried not to feel guilty of the bloated

opulance of the small cabin. He endured the interrogation by Beckett, with all his veiled threats, and truth-twisting. He

was conteractedby the naked hatred of Jones. Beckett had silkily questioned him about Jack Sparrow, and the Pearl,

under Jone's slithering vigilance and glowering silence. Gillette had told them all that he knew, which was precious little, and was

both relieved and alarmed that neither of them deemed it necessary to ask anything else about Norrington.

Beckett must have somehow signaled Mercer when Gillette had his eyes averted, because that scarred, hated face

slid into the door with a leer. Gillette was escorted, not to the dank cells where the Calliopie's men were housed, but

rather to a shipside cabin. Mercer unlocked the door, shoved it open with a thrust of his palm, and marched Gillette forward.

Gillette stared at the small room with raised eyebrows, before turning to Mercer.

"Since I have been cooperative, would Lord Beckett consider my request to simply be with the rest of my crew, sir?"

Mercer scowled at him, slid those unrevealing eyes to his, and leaned forward with an icy hiss, " Lord Beckett's treated

you with far more mercy than you're entitled to, and you'd best remember that he's only allowing you all to live as long as

it suits him."

Gillette recoiled, and bowed his head to the glare in yielding submission. Mercer glowered at him for a few more horrible moments,

and with a parting sneer, left. Gillette slumped in trembling relief when he heard the footsteps finally fade to a safe distance.

His shoulder still throbbed, the broken arm bound and hurting, but sensation had slowly returned, and Gillette was grateful

for that. Carefully, he eased himself onto the bed, laying his arm at his side with care to not aggrivate the hurt any more. He turned

his eyes to the small round window. The starless night was cloaked in shadowed clouds, the dark water writhing as if in pain.

Gillette winced in suprise as the Antigone suddenly pitched upward, and then sharply tilted downward. He heard an ominous groan

from her hull, and sat upright, recognizing the eerie sound of straining wood. The ship shuddered as if struck, and he felt the

hit beneath him ripple through her entire frame.

He heard the ocean itself rolling inward on itself, the waters parting from whatever was stirring beneath her surface. The surging swell separated, and he watched in horror as the Flying Dutchman's rotted hull rose like a marlin from the depths, her prow sharp and skyward, her rotted sails unfurling, the water weeping off her mottled sides. The ship continued her upward ressurection from hell slowly, her gloaming sails like greedy hands, snatching the fists of wind, despite the gaping holes. Mist and shadow clung to her, cloaked her like an unholy skin as she finally halted her ascent. Gillette shudddered as she slowly wove her way through the unbroken dark, the slinking wet and the darkness mercifully hiding the undead crew. Gillette could make out their forms scurrying to secure her tacklines.

He saw the unmistakable gliding lurch of Jones, the tenticles flaring in aggitation, or eagerness, as he strode up her deck like a king lightinghis throne. His tenticles splayed skyward, as if it to snatch it, and he turned those murky eyes towards the Antigone with an eerie, knowing smirk.

Gillette watched as the crew pivoted the huge wheel, strainng and sweating to bring the giantic pillary high and then slam it down back into the Dutchman's lower compartments, urged on by the cracking whip of the bosun. Gillette felt, rather than heard the roaring thud of metal reverberating to the ocean's body and rolling through his core like a thunder clap. The echo made his skin crawl, the vibration in the air itself stunning all movementin the torpid waiting.

Gillette knew that something horrible had just transpired, but he had naught but his own disbelieving eyes to decipher what. And then, he saw the ocean vomit forth a monstrosity. Lingering just below the water's surface, he could barely make out the huge white shape as it rose at the Dutchman's signal. The kraken rose like a moon, her pale arms writhing in greed, rolling in serpentine coils over the waves, her gaping obsiden and gold eyes holding an empty abyss of animal hunger, unsated, and untamed. She emerged, each arm unfurling as Gillette continued to gape in arm rose high and fell, its length easily able to wrap around the Antigone. The beast lingered aside both ships, long enough for Gillette to put a sickened hand to slack jaw in terror. And then, with a treacherous grace, the beast lashed the ocean with one arm, as if in mocking salute, before she dove downward and disappeared. The only evidence that she even existed was the huge rise and swell of the ocean, and the memories.

The leviathan had not even made a sound.

_______________________________________________________________________

Bootstrap felt the summoning like a whiplash, and he shuddered at the aching fire that flooded his undead veins. Cloying ice, bitter realization made him nearly fall to his knees from the sudden agony. He heard Jack's alarmed barking of his name, felt his former captain's hands suddenly grip his slimed coat, haul him upright, and hold him against the wall as his legs buckled.

"Bootstrap?" Jack's bronze face wavered in front of him, twisted in concern as those dark eyes swept over him. Jack tilted his head to the side, as he staggered for his footing. He winced at pulling at his injured shoulders, and was nearly floored himself. Warily, Jack grimaced at the floor,

raising a boot, puzzled. He sighed, and narrowed his eyes when he saw Bootstrap's face staring almost imploringly at the walls, as if seeking deliverance. Jack felt his body go rigid, as those cold hands suddenly lurched over his shoulders. Jack cringed at the pressure against his wound,but Bootstrap was too stricken to notice his pain.

"Bootstrap...given your sudden inability to speak, and the dubious look of terror on your face, you not only know what in the world just struck the Pearllike an anvil, you also know that it's a thing to dread. Would you care to enlighten me as to the exact nature of what said unknown factor might be?"

Bootstrap flinched, pivoted sharply, his eyes shutting, and then, his fingers tensing over Jack's shoulders like claws. Jack hissed sharply, and attempted to wriggle out from the grip, but was unable to break the hold.

"The kraken. She comes for ye, Jack." Bootstrap spoke it as if it was an invocation, a whispered breath of choked anguish. Jack raised a dubious eyebrow,tilted his head. With an exaggerated show of patience, Jack sighed. "Normally, when a 'she' comes for me, she comes either wanting a glorious night of refuge from the world in the arms of Captain Jack Sparrow, or she wants to slap my hansome mug. I take it that the female you are referring to wants neither?"

Bootstrap's fingers tightened like a noose as he lurched Jack upwards. "Jones has summoned the beast, Jack, to drag ye and the Pearl back to the depths that she came from. She won't stop until she's caught ye. Her hunger won't be sated by less than that."

Jack shivered, but kept his words light and eerily calm. "Right then. Could you be so kind as to give me a time frame when said beastie might be gracing my Pearl with her presence?"

Bootstrap's face contorted, as he put a sorrowful palm over Jack's shoulder. "Jack...ye don't understand. The kraken travels through the deeps fast. Naught can hold 'er back, save the call of Davy Jones."

An unreadable expression flickered across Jack's face as he only nodded, and turned his searching eyes out to the ocean. "How long do I have before she arrives, mate?"

Bootstrap lowered his head, his mouth working into a grim line. "Jack...there's no delay, there's no time's passin' to wait. She's already been summoned. She's already _here."_


	26. A Pretty Bit Of Shine

"She's already here."

If those words did not feel like a blow, the Pearl's sudden lurch upward, and the squawks of alarm was more than enough to erase any merciful denial that Jack might have catered to. Jack stiffened to hear the door's latch yanked, and Bootstrap only had seconds to shuffle back into the shadows. Gibbs' gawking face emerged into the shaft of lantern light, his eyes white and wide with terror. Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, Gibbs jerked his head towards the deck.

"Cap'n! Ye best get above, Jack..there's somethin' fierce brewing in these waters!"

Jack gave him a sardonic grin, placed his palms over the table, and nodded. "Aye, Gibbs, I know. I'll be with you presently. Until then, tell the crew to latch down tight, shoot at her arms, and stay away from the railing."

Gibbs stood agog, raising a shaking hand skyward, and trembling. Jack sighed patiently, and clapped a reassuring hand over Gibb's shoulder. "I will be with ye presently, Gibbs. And if old Fishface does show, kindly inform him that I am open to negotiation."

Gibbs' eyebrows shot upward. "Ol' Fishface? Cap'n, what-"

Jack shooed him along with a wave of his hand, and a wicked smile. "Believe me, Mr. Gibbs...you will know him when you see him. And, trust me on this, you won't want to know or see him at all, if it can possibly be avoided. He's a most unforgiving git."

Gibbs bolted back up the stairs, shaking his head and cursing. Soon, the deck was filled with his bellowing, and the sound of the crew scrambling into shuddered, lay his palms back down and slumped, heaving, and trembling. He heard Bootstrap's hesitant steps in the corner he had taken refuge in, heard him halt at his side, and linger in anguish. Clenching his forehead in his hand, Jack sighed again, and raised those desolate eyes to Bootstrap.

"I know that there is not enough rum in the world that can possibly obliterate the dread I have in meeting Old Fishface, again." He said softly, as he took a swig of rum, and winced with a nod. "Aye, this is a most unpleasant possibility that I have never truly considered until this present moment....a bit short-sided, that....."

Bootstrap watched as Jack set the bottle down, his lips curving into a thoughtful smirk. "But, it does nothing to negate the fact that I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, and I'm forward thinking enough to negate the previous bit of unpleasantness."

Bootstrap's forehead crinkled in confusion as Jack suddenly blurted his name. Draping one arm over the chair, casually, Jack gave Bootstrap a wolfish grin, and a nod. "Would you please be so kind as to tell Fishface that I'd be most happy to surrender aboard the Dutchman, under the condition that he not blast the Pearl full of holes?"

Bootstrap's eyes bulged and his jaw dropped as Jack ran his nails against his shirt with another smirk. He frowned when he saw Bootstrap's shock, and waved his hands in the air as if shooing away a bird. "Come on, mate, I know it's been a pleasant little reunion here, but I'd hate for him to unleash his beastie against my crew unnecessarily."

"He means to claim ye for the Dutchman, Jack! He means to cage yore immortal soul to serve under his lash and his flag forever!"

Jack winked. "While it is always admirable to have high ambitions, it is quite tragic to have them misaligned with one's limitations. Go on, then."

Bootstrap gave him an silently imploring look and then an anguished glare at the ship around him. "Jack...my fate....tisn't one to be accepted so light."

Jack's bright grin faltered into a pained, sharp nod. "I know that. And if I have me way at my little gamble....you'll not be accepting that fate so light, either."

Bootstrap shook his head. "Captain Jones ain't one to be crossed, Jack."

"And I'm not one to be bound to his banner, either, mate." Jack's lips curled into a smirk, as he shook off the sudden horror, and waved Bootstrap on.

"Be so kind as to deliver that message, but leave out the bits where I referred to him as Fishface. I don't think he would be very appreciative of that befitting moniker, now would he?"

Bootstrap siged miserably, attempted one more plea as Jack only clapped another hand over his shoulder. "I appreciate this most touching bit of concern. Ye've been of my more trusted aquaintance long enough to know that I'm going to be alright, and I'm going to wriggle my measly black guts out of this mess before that sea-scab has time to untangle the knots I will be shortly weaving in that tenticled mug of his. Ye know me, Bootstrap. The question is, do ye trust me now enough to tell him that?"

Bootstrap gave him a sorrowful nod. "I ne'er betrayed ye before, Jack. I won't be starting that now."

Jack heard nothing more than the wet dripping, the squelch of soaked boots, and the shifting of flesh to water as Bootstrap suddenly disappeared. Jack's fingers ventured into the folds of his scarf, searching carefully for the small piece of shine that would be his deliverance. He chuckled when he felt the cold metal against his flesh, as he fished the gold coin out of his scarf and flipped into the air. It shimmered like a star as it wheeled back to earth, and landed in his outstretched palm.

"I've never been one for archaic currency, but a piece of cursed Aztec gold may yet prove useful in a curse against my immortal soul." Glancing heavenward, he shrugged. "I know that You're merciful, since Ye bestowed upon us the blessings of rum and the ocean. Show me a bit of mercy now, alright?"

He tucked the coin back into his scarf, and drew another long, steadying swig as Gibbs thundered back down the stairs. "Cap'n! Ye need to get above, now!" Gibbs was shrill with fear as Jack gave him a laconic smile, and casually trotted up the stairs to meet his fate.

It was the silence that hit like a blow as he strode above deck. There was an eerie, wanning stillness, except for the collective breath of his crew as they heaved and choked against the bonds of tenticles, hands, and various appendages wrapped around their quaking throats. Jone's crew had them lined up, on their knees, in a parody of bowing. When Gibbs choked out his name, Jack pivoted sharply, only to see a cutlass at his throat, and the trickle of blood. Gibbs winced, bucked at his captor, and stopped when the blade dug deepr into his flesh.

Jack swallowed when he heard the familiar sound of Jone's snicker, and the gliding thump of boot and tenticle as his shadow shifted on the deck.

______________________________________________________ 


	27. Bound

The torpid fear above deck lay cloying as an oncoming storm as Jack slowly strode upward. The sun was high, its arc of light searing down on the simmering ocean. He felt the humid, seething heat like a blow, heard Jone's casual calling of his name as if he were an irate pet to be scolded. Jack shuddered inwardly as he paused at the last step.  
The heat, the sun, the fear, and the lingering aftermath of both his injury and illness spewed a horrible elixir of unfamiliar heaved a breath, and forced his instinctive snarl into a bright, false grin of mocking welcome. Gibbs scowled in concern as Jack flickered an uncertain glance to him. Gibbs' shoulders hitched in answer,  
as Jack nodded almost unseen.

The Pearl's crew were on their knees, in a parody of begging, a long, ragged line of shaking men, held in submission by blades to the throat and a savage horror at the monsters that had emerged from the Dutchman. Jack grinned widely, and glided inches away from Jones, halting with a sweeping, mocking bow.

"Greetings, gents. And to what most gratuitous fortune or not do I owe this dubious honor?" Jack's question lingered, bright and false as his rapidly decaying bravado. Jones did not answer, his sea-slimed tentacles twitched in agitation or anticipation, his face cloaked in the shadows of the mast and his hat. Jack swallowed hard, when Jones's mouth quirked into what might have been a sneer or a smile, Jack could not tell which.  
His pale eyes narrowed, and the only sound was the staccato thump of his boot as he smoothly strolled over the deck like a panther.

"Sparrah." Jones spat the name, as Jack rolled his eyes. "It's captain, captain Jack Sparrow. Why's it so bloody difficult to remember that?"

The only answer coming was the sudden lash of the tenticle at his throat, choking his breath and hoisting him high.  
Jack hissed for breath with bared teeth, the seconds long and anguished as Jones let out a burbling cackle deep from his gut, and cheerfully continued to strangle him. Jack cringed against the cold invasive grip, and writhed, his hand groping for his blade as his vision darkened. It was the same tortured drowning he had spent in those harrowing moment in the noose at Port Royal.

Gibb's idle threats rolled like thunder, breaking over the ever-growing abyss that seemed to fill the last moments. Vaguely,  
he heard Bootstrap's entreaty, the word distorted by the shrill whine of silence as Jones pivoted sharply and suddenly dumped Jack onto the deck.

The last snatches of Bootstrap's pleas were loud in the torpor. "He's offered himself, willin', Cap'n! He ain't no good to ye dead!"

Jack hissed in the sweet air, gasping and coughing as he rubbed his sore neck and shakily rose. Bootstrap shuddered and was already bowing in harried appeasement. Jones only glowered at him, the menacing promise of retribution unspoken but clear with Jone's baleful glare at his bosun, and then at Bootstrap. Jack cleared his throat, to draw attention and to find the breath.

"Now, that was a bit uncalled for, mate." Jack's voice was rasped as he rested his elbow on the yardam and shook his head. "Besides, how can we reacn an equitable accord if I'm deceased, as it were?"

Jones tilted his head, with another snarl. "Ye being deceased would be an accord I'd be most satisfied in striking, Sparrah."  
Jack squinted at that, and lay an unwilling hand across his throat with a grim nod. "Aye, you've made that point brutally clear. But....." Jack's eyes slid to Gibbs, and his crew, giving them what little reassurance he could. "What say you to a bit of a trade?"

Jones's brow furrowed as he lowered his gaze to peer down at Jack. It reminded Jack of a bull readying itself to charge.  
"And what do ye possibly have that could be of interest to me, Sparrah, that would be more satisfying than me sending your flesh to the depths,and yore soul to the Locker?"

Jack's lip curled, but then flickered into a beguiling grin. His hand strayed to his scarf, the coin cooling against his sweated palm. "What say you....to me...." Jack swept a languid hand over himself, "willingly serving me time under your sordid, tattered, filthy ragged banner in exchange for your gracious mercy in leaving the Pearl intact?"

Jones glowered as Jack brightly continued, "What have ye to lose? You can always kill me later."

There was silence as Jones considered this with narrow-eyed suspicion. "Yore naught but a coward, and a liar, Sparrah.  
Why should I believe that yore willin' to serve yore time with no tricks?"

Jack's eyes narrowed as he lay a palm across the Pearl's rigging, caressed it, and then raised those dark eyes to his cowering crew. "If you don't mind, I would like to take a not so pleasant trip down memory ...pain, as it were.  
I offered my life to you in exchange for raising the Pearl the first time. Do you really think that she means any less to me now?"

There was only biting silence as Jack's fingers glided over her wood like a lover's embrace, before he smiled at Jones.  
"I sense a most dubious sense of distrust towards me, and that is, unfortunately, not entirely without merit or reason.  
However, let us look together at the situation at hand, shall we? You've got my crew held hostage, my ship under siege, and a sword at me throat. I, on the other hand, have nothing to truly bargain with except my wit and charm. And while they've both served me well and have worked several insepid miracles on behalf of the ladies, I don't see how either one will do much good unless I can charm that sword from your hand or outwit you...the latter being very likely."

Jones scowled at that, and Jack hastily waved a negating hand. "So, seeing as I'm weaponless, defenseless and utterly lacking any feasible method of escape, with no option presenting itself, I see no other solution than you taking me at my word and taking me with you."

Jones only gave a curt nod, and pivoted towards his crew. "Bring him aboard."

Gibbs sagged in relief as the blade from his throat was withdrawn, and slumped before scrambling to his feet. All around him, the Pearl's crew was rising to their feet, fearfully glancing at the departing monsters. Gibbs watched as Jack recoiled from the cruel, posessive grip of Jone's claw over his wounded shoulder, the flicker of anguish tightening those lips into a grim line of acceptance.

Jack flinched as Jones nudged him forward to face the Pearl's crew. "Say goodbye to yore men, Sparrah. Twill be a long time before ye see them again, unless they die and join my crew."

Jack shrugged off the grip, and strode forward, his bright grin so forced that his cheeks ached as he gave them all a lofty bow. "Gents, it's been fun. Please carry on."

Gibbs gawked in dismay, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish before he finally squawked Jack's name.

"Cap'n?! Wha-"

Jack turned to him, his dark eyes searing with misery as he softly gestured towards the ship. "Mr. Gibbs..."  
Jack gave him a tired, sad smile. "Take care of her for me."

Gibbs shook his head, hissed, "But ye can't leave, Jack, you belong on the Pearl!"

Jack was serenely calm as he met his frantic words, placidly. "Mr. Gibbs, I leave you in charge of the Pearl, until my eventual, and certain return to resume my rightful role as Captain Jack Sparrow. Do ye accept?"

Gibbs stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, then suddenly snatched Jack's hand in a ferocious grip, as if he could haul Jack away from Jones by wish alone.

"Aye, Cap'n. I accept." Gibbs whispered gravely, the weight of the sudden realization almost as hard to bear as that last anguished glance Jack gave the Pearl before he willingly slid back into the grim, final line of Jone's crew.  
Jones was already weaving his treacherous grip over his flesh, and Gibbs watched as Jack went rigid with the strain of choking back the words that would normally flood forth in one bright spew. Jack's grandiose movements were gone, his arms firmly clamped to his sides in a futile attempt to protect himself from the violating, owning sensation.

Jack was already shackled to his fate as he only gave Jones a forced, glittering smile and the Pearl one last, tortured look. There was only the gliding thump of Jones, his barked order to depart. Jack was gone before any of them could even cry out.


	28. Discussion

The ocean was placid as Norrington strode the small length of the boat from stern to sterm like an aggitated panther.

It was a disconcerting feeling, to see the abyss of water, and endless, empty sky. Norrington eyed the blue expanse

above him with a scowl. The sky suddenly seemed as wide and consuming as a mouth as he shuddered at the thought.

Wearily, he raked a hand through the tangled snarl of his hair, grimaced at the brittle feel of the strands. It had

been a new torture for him to endure, the helpless waiting, the inaction, the silence. They had been on the open sea

for well over a week, and he only kept count of the unrelenting rise and fall of the sun by carving a notch on a piece

of the Caliopie's deck he had somehow salvaged. All he knew for certain now was that the notches were increasing

in number, while the time he had to do Beckett's bidding was running out.

He sighed, and slumped, pondering the miserable possibilities. Beckett had already proven to be cruel, and treacherous.

What was there to stay Beckett's hand from simply gutting his men and throwing their bodies overboard? Norrington

felt the searing guilt anew as he clenched his hands into futile fists, clenched his eyes shut, shuddering with the weight

of holding back the onslaught.

Anamaria cocked her head to the side when she saw Norrington bow his head, and curl inward, as if warding off a

blow. She noted the bone deep tremor, the pale blanche of pain of his face, and then that longing look towards the

ocean. She grunted. It was either amusing, or savage to note how human and fragile Norrington truly was, once he

had been stripped of place and pretense. Norrington startled at the sound, and rigidly pivoted, masterfully rearranging

that tormented look into that regal, distancing stare. He raised an eyebrow, as he rose, squinting at her warily.

"Is there something that you need, miss?" His voice was cold, and his eyes unreadable as Anamaria huffed, and jabbed

a thumb out to the ocean. She narrowed her eyes and crossed both arms, eying him warily. Relunctantly, she bit out,

"Beckett won't be killing yore crew."

Norrington turned to face her. His words were clipped and chilled with the effort to restrain the

volitility. "You will excuse me if I don't share your decidedly charitable view of Beckett's humanity in sparing the lives

of my men."

Anamaria snorted, as her fingers ghosted over her wrist with the brand. "Beckett be a monster, that I know. But, dead men do 'im no good.

He won't be keepin' them alive because he's

got a bit of mercy. He'll keep 'em livin' because it won't do for a trader for the King to be known for murderin'

all the King's men. Cruel he may be, but he ain't daft. Besides, if he kills 'em, what has he got to keep you in 'is service?"

Norrington gave that thought a considering frown as she scowled at the water. She did not turn when she heard his

soft question behind her. "And what does he use to keep *you* in his service?"

She could not tell if it was an accusation, or a plea as she tilted her head, raised her chin, and for the first time, faltered.

"He ain't daft, and ye ain't that thick, Commodore. 'm a woman and a dark one at that. Can ye tell me of any place in

yore up 'n proper land that'd leave me be? Here, I'm free...there..." she swept a hand over the horizon beyond the deck.

"It's naught but a cage or a noose for the likes o' me."

Norrington sighed at that, and slowly stepped to her. "And what ending do you think is reserved for a pirate? How is

it any different?"

Anamaria gave him a mirthless, bitter smirk of knowing. "Tis true, that endin' ain't changing for either one. 's a bit of

justice, though, for punishin' a pirate. Tis no justice for being punished for being dark."

Norrington gave her a curt nod. "I see." Anamaria only gave him another glare, her hand unwittingly cupping the old

wound, before she only shook her head.

"You promised to hand Jack Sparrow over to Beckett in exchange for your freedom."

Anamaria squinted at him, her lips tightening into a grim line. "Is that what ye think is truly 'appening, then? That I'd

be so daft and dumb to strike an accord with the likes of Beckett?" She spat as she lurched towards him, until they were

nearly flush, her hand instinctively landing on her knife's hilt.

Norrington's shoulders rose and fell in aggitation as he snarled out, "You are a desolute pirate who is in the service of

the man who is currently holding my crew hostage. What other reason could you possibly have?"

The heavy silence was rapidly decaying into unbearable tension as they stood locked in the horrible moment.

Norrington was bearing down on her like a mountain, and she shivered inwardly at that cold calculation

in his glare. There was only her soft snarl, biting and vicious.

"Ye tried to sink the Pearl when she was retreatin' from ye. Ye tried to hang Jack....and Jack never 'ould have been

involved in any of the King's affairs if 'e weren't such a daft idiot to save the gov'nor's daughter from drownin' in the

first place. Ever since ye laid eyes on 'im, ye tried to kill 'im. And...if Jack 'n me both be pirates, Commodore....would ye

expect anythin' less?"

The question was far too shrewd as Anamaria gave him a bitterly satisfied smirk. Norrington narrowed his eyes, and

his uneasy scowl deepened. The silence, laden with things left unsaid finally ended when Norrington gave the ocean

another scathing glare. "It would indeed be 'daft' for me to expect anything at all from a pirate."

Anamaria's brow furrowed at that remark, as she prepared another verbal dagger to throw. She did not get her

chance, however. Norrington gave her a long, troubled look, and then resumed his troubled contemplation of

the ocean. Anamaria halted from her irate pacing when she heard Norrington's sigh.

"In the few times I've been unfortunate enough to have an aquaintance with Jack Sparrow, the only 'daft'

thing I could never comprehend is his dubious inability to understand the consequences of piracy. Even when

the wretch had the noose around his neck, he refused to accept the likely possibility that he would pay for his

crimes. Is not such denial madness?"

Anamaria gave him an amused snort. "And what do ye think drives the 'madness,' Commodore? Jack...he knows he

ain't gonna live forever. He'll leave this ol' world like the rest o' us....'s just a matter of time. He knows he faces

the noose, the shot, the wound. All pirates know that...and so do all yore fine King's men, too. I bet, though, he

was just unhappy with his ending bein' by rope on land, and not on water with that cursed ship o' his. No, Commodore..

Tisn't denial, tisn't madness. That's just Jack Sparrow."


	29. A Thinning Line

Jack's longing gaze never left the Pearl, even as they dragged him off, even as they dumped his boneless body aboard the decaying hull of the Dutchman, even as Jack's limbs were laced with tentacles, hands, and unidentifable apendages,  
and dragged down to the abyss of the dripping, rotting brig, and locked him away. Jack only allowed that unfaltering grin to wilt when they had finally slammed the door of his cage shut with a finality that made him tremble. He heard their cackled promises, bellowed at him from behind his helpless sprawl on the floor. He had managed to scramble to his feet, grace them with a lofty bow and a sweeping doft of his hat, grand promises of his escape. The sudden lash of the bosun's whip across his spine nearly brought him to his knees from the blinding flare of pain. Jack righted himself,  
gave them another bright grin, and poshly brushed away the tatters. "That was brutally unnecessary, mate."

The bosun only flared the whip with a sneer and a definite promise of more punishment as Jack curled a lip and warily lurched as far away from the whip's reach as his small, dripping cell would allow. He felt the gash of open flesh that went across his back and shivered as some of the tepid water dripped down his bent back. The bosun resumed his gleeful vigil as Jack sighed, folded his arms and settled down on the driest bit of floor he could find.  
His shoulder resumed its dull throb, and he was soon shivering with the ever-present wet that seemed to cover him like a second skin. Despite that, sleep had finally caught him and dragged him down unaware, somehow.  
Jack remembered nothing but a blurred dream of fear and then suddenly bolting awake when he heard a hissed argument between his guard and Bootstrap. Jack resumed his slouch, but allowed his eyes to open a crack.  
He caught the snatches of brewing fight. Bootstrap was irately flaring a hand towards the stairwell, and snarling out that "the Cap'ns orders be that ye go above deck and leave me watch duty over the prisoner."

The bosun finally parted, but not without a crack of the whip through the bars, before Bootstrap could intervene.  
Jack yelped and bolted upright. The whip left him with a bright arch of pain across his cheek. Jack timidly lay a palm on it, felt the trickle of blood, and blinked at it, stunned. Bootstrap gave the bosun a brutal crack of his fist, and the man lay sprawled and glowering up at him in the muck of the hull that had gathered in the lowest compartment of the ship. Bootstrap rose out of the shadows, loomed over him as he slowly hissed out,  
"Cap'ns orders were for ye to change place with me, bosun. I wouldn't keep him waitin' much longer."

The bosun gave him and Jack a last glare before he scrambled up the stairs like a cowering rat. Bootstrap did not turn to Jack until the bosun was finally gone. He heard Jack groan, as he slumped, and cradled his aching head, propping his elbows on his knees. "Is that dreadful git gone on Jones' orders, or did ye just do something decidedly noble and stupid in preventing me from enduring yet another weary and most unnecessary flogging?"

Bootstrap hitched a shoulder. "Twas Cap'ns orders, Jack, that bosun go above, and switch with me. But there was no need or order for bosun to hurt ye."

Jack did not smile as he wearily lay a hand across his bleeding cheek and winced. "With as many slaps I've received from wenches, one would think that such a blow would be slightly less painful."

Bootstrap chuckled at that. "Aye, true, that. But, twould be a strange thing indeed if a wench flogged ye..or, maybe not, given yore appetites?"

Jack snorted at that. "Mr. Turner, I lack both the needed sense of adventure and the high threshold of pain to even attempt that sort of sordid nocturnal venture. Besides, it would be a bit ludacris to pay for such a venture when there are several women who would quite happily perform such a cruel act for free."

Bootstrap gave him a wry, bitter smile, as Jack tiredly studied the dripping dark around him and grimaced when he felt the damp alreadly cloying to his skin.

"Ye were foolish to offer yourself up, Jack. Why'd ye do it?" The question lingered, unanswered as Jack only raised those storm-dark eyes to Bootstrap for a long, uncertain moment. Jack winced as he slowly arranged himself into a better position for some of his more unhealed bruises. His shoulder was still throbbing, but it had faded to a far more ignorable ache. There was a long silence as Jack wearily resumed his survey of the slimed wet.

"Foolishness had nothing to do with it, Bootstrap. You sail under his banner, mate. You know what he is capable of.  
Jones would have no qualms about slitting the throat of every crew member aboard the Pearl, and forcing me to watch. There's naught a crueler man......or fish....or manfish, or whatever the bloody hell he is now sailing in these waters."

Bootstrap's eyes narrowed at that. "I think ye may be suprised."

Jack frowned at that, puzzled, but Bootstrap did not offer any further information.  
Sighing, Jack waved a hand in a flourishing gesture towards the ocean, unseen behind his back, as he continued, "He raised the Pearl, Bootstrap. He dredged the ship from the depths, put her back in the world. Mate, if Jones has the power to raise a ship from the darkest circle of the ocean, what do ye think he might do if he decided to drag her back down? The Pearl may be thefastest ship in the Carribean, but what good does that do when her foe can turn the ocean itself against her?"

Bootstrap's shoulder hitched in answer.

"I didn't expect you to have an answer for that, mate. Luckily, I happen to have one so you don't have to fret."  
Jack's golden teeth glinted in the wanning light as he raised a coy eyebrow.  
Bootstrap's chin jerked upward, sharply, as he shook his head, disbelieving and wary. "Jack....Cap'n isn't one to trifle with. You'll suffer for it if ye try."

Jack waved a hand around his cell. "And what exactly do you think I'm doing now, Bootstrap? Am I to trust the good graces of Old Fishface's most ingratitious mercies-or lack thereof, considering the git was willing to sink the Pearl, and kill my crew? I'm not exactly having a delightful garden party behind these bars, and you know how dreadfully familiar my aquaintance with brigs and cells and what-not are.. I'll suffer either way, mate. At least my trifling with Fishface would be a far more interesting venture than simply languishing here."

Bootstrap sighed in weary patience. "Ye know that I'm not a learned man, Jack, and that babble of yore's will even tempt me to flog ye."

Jack lurched forward, and stared at him, the cell bars carving their ugly shadows over his flesh, as something dark and ominous churned in the air between them. "I feel that your captain shall be tempted to do a great deal more than that to me before this sordid little adventure is over with."

And with that, he gently flicked out the coin that he had tucked away, letting it fall into his open hand, the shimmering light waxing over its grotesque face. Jack recoiled at the cold against his palm. Anguished rememberance flickered over Bootstrap's face as his eyes suddenly glittered with betraying wet.

"No...." he breathed the word, his tortured questions searing from the coin into Jack's face. Jack's smirk wilted into shock as he hastily snatched the coin mid-flip and tucked it away in a curled fist. "They be cursed, Jack! They be from hell itself, and Barbossa sent me to the depths because of them. What madness has made ye take leave of yore senses,  
Jack?!"

Jack swallowed hard, as he tilted his head to the side. "I saw the bones in the moonlight, mate. I felt Barbossa's blade between my ribs, I felt my own flesh give way like water from the curse, I died at his hand, and yet, I breathe because of this pretty bit of shine, Bootstrap. Exactly how is a man supposed to endure such...peculiar circumstances and not walk away a bit....mad, eh?"

Bootstrap did not answer, but only stared at the long line of a scar across Jack's palm. It was hastily hacked injury when Jack had slid the blade across his hand in that panicked moment of Barbossa's gloating, undead glory.  
He remembered the horror of it all, seeing flesh and decay shifting through a hellish prism of moonlight and gold,  
Barbossa's cadaverous laugh through that gaping mull of a mouth as he casually munched an apple. Jack remembered, too, what it was like to die. The agony of the steel sliding into his gut, as Barbossa rose over his failing senses like a moon, the cackling and the roar of his own blood thundering in his veins. He remembered the blade jutting out of his chest, the numb torpor as he instinctively shuddered at the horrific realization that he was quaking from shock of being alive, and not the deaththroes he had been expecting.

Bootstrap was transfixed by the tortured glance Jack gave the coin, before he shook his head. "The only madness in that whole unpleasant affair was my rather naive expectation that I could merrily skip back aboard my Pearl with only a bit of insanity, mate."

Jack's grin was rather forced as he lightly traced the scar's path over his palm, absently.

"And what exactly are ye plannin' on doin', Jack? Do ye mean to offer Jones the coin in exchange for passage back to the Pearl?" Bootstrap's question was curt.

Jack said nothing, only gave him a curled lip in either a smirk or a sneer, as he unfolded his hand, calmly lay the coin across his palm. He gave Bootstrap a quick wink as he hoisted the small hidden dagger from his boot, and then carved the bloody line into his own flesh, the gold and the scarlet mingling, the moonlight turning his clenched hand into a delicate arch of naked bone. 


	30. Glimpse of a Monster

Norrington resumed his ever wary study of the endless expanse of water and golden horizon. The day had been fair enough, the sun arching her path through a cloudless sky, a fast wind had filled the sails, and even Anamaria seemed to be a bit more at ease with their progress to their yet unknown destination. They still exchanged only the necessary words, and those were curt and terse, but they had fallen into a bearable pattern of silence and tolerance that made their forced unity a bit more solid. Anamaria had slowly accepted Norrington as an able seaman, and he, in turn, had irked her a bit less by curtailing some of his military issued distain. They still shared a comfortable amount of loathing,  
but had come to the painful realization that they would not survive their treacherous voyage alone.

Norrington watched her glide over the deck, her abyss-dark eyes narrowed against the wanning light, her fists clenched over the knots of rigging she was repairing. She shook her head with another frown and then resumed her braiding.  
Norrington turned his gaze out to the gloaming water, and raised an eyebrow. He could see nothing that would cause alarm, and since she had gone back to her work, he paid it no more heed, as he went below deck for a brief moment.  
Anamaria scowled up at Norrington, her eyebrow arched warily as he only sighed, and scowled in return as he set down their nightly provisions of supper-brittle tack, and smoked fish, choked down with a liberal amount of rum. Warily, she eyed him for a moment, and then glanced down at the bread. Norrington's eyes were unrevealing and indifferent when she finally snatched up the tack and broke a piece off. "Thank ye." It was spat as Anamaria soaked her tack in the rum to soften it enough to chew.

Norrington only arched his lips in what looked like a polite sneer, as he bit out in his characteristic chill,"You are welcome."

They resumed their mutual glowering, as Norrington finally allowed himself to sink against the railing, as he mastered his grimace at the foul taste of the fish. It was not spoiled, but so heavily smoked to preserve it, he felt like he was eating nothing but ash and bone. It was one of the unpleasant factors in an extended sea voyage. Anamaria ate her bit with the help of several swigs of rum. Norrington noticed her lurch upward as she suddenly bolted to her feet and stood rigid and transfixed, her eyes squinting towards the sea.

"What is it?" Norrington asked curiously, as he followed her gaze, but could see nothing troubling. She jerked her chin towards the ocean, "I thought I saw a sea-beast of some sort movin' through the waves. I saw its wake, but it went back to the depths be'fo I could tell what it was."

"There are whales in these waters, I don't see anything alarming about that."

Anamaria glared at him, evenly. "I've eyes in me head, and sense enough to survive these waters, Commodore. What I saw was no whale."

Norrington only shook his head in resigned tolerance. "As you will, miss." They ate in silence for a long moment, until Norrington set down his tack with finality. "I believe that there are some pressing matters we must discuss, miss."

Anamaria halted midbite, and rose, warily. "And what be troublin' ye, commodore?"

"I know that you have no intention of handing Jack Sparrow over to Beckett." Anamaria stiffened, but was silent as her hand strayed and halted on the hilt of her knife. His voice was only a breathed snarl as his own hand rested on his scabbard. "I would know of your true intentions, now."

Anamaria only raised her chin, baring her neck to his blade. "Ye want the truth, Commodore? Beckett ordered me to slit yore throat and dump yore corpse to the depths. He's no intention of sparin' ye, or yore men, for that manner. For all I know, I'd naught be a bit suprised if he's already done it."

She flinched as Norrington's blade suddenly flickered like lightening, and she felt its cold edge biting near her neck. Norrington stood quaking, his eyes brittle and cruel as he allowed his burning appraisal to sweep over her in one vicious, sharp tug. Anamaria choked back the yelp as Norrington's fierce hand dug into her arm.

"You lie."

She shuddered against him, her eyes widening with fear, as she tried in vain to free herself. His shoulders hitched with the effort to keep his necessary rationality in check of the warring emotions of his heart.

"Speak the truth. How do I know that you are not merely construction a falsehood to save your wretched skin?"

She hissed in answer, wincing at the sting of his words, "Have some sense, Commodore. Beckett's got the rule of the seas under 'im already, and a fleet of fine ships to obey 'is orders. Do ye really believe that Beckett would be fool enough to send this clapboard vessel out on these waters to hunt down a ship as fast as the Pearl?"

Norrington's blade yielded with his uncertainty, as he tilted his head to the side. "Why didn't Beckett simply kill me when I was aboard his ship? Why did he allow us to board?"

Anamaria chuckled bitterly. "If ye think 's intentions were honorable, Commodore, yore a fool. Beckett knew before yore crew was rescued that the Pearl had been spotted on the waters, but wasn't sure where. He couldn't get the bearin's without knowing what ye saw, or where. And, suppose he'd just left yore men in that boat, and they were salvaged by someone else? Do ye not think he would be answerable for leaving the King's own to rot on the waves?"

Anamaria's groping hands slid over the rigging's knot, and she filched it before Norrington could see it.

Norrington's scowl deepened as he pondered her words, when she suddenly pivoted and swung. He felt nothing nothing but the sting of the blow and then the dark, blissfully numb ache as he crumbled at her feet. Anamaria rose like a goddess executing judgement over her fallen enemy, did not release her weapon until she saw that he was slumped and beaten, and no longer a threat. She hastily kicked away his sword, watched it clatter down the deck and into the hull below.

She shook her head, trembling as she stared down at him. She lowered her shaking hands, and let the rigging fall from her slack fingers,panting. Norrington groaned, instinctively clapped a hand over the bleeding to his scalp. She heard his soft swearing as he rose, slowly. She scuttled away, frantically snatching an oar and hefting it high and ready over her shoulder. Norrington winced,  
and raised a placating hand, his eyes warily fixed on her oar as he backed away as he would from a frightened animal.

"You've no need for that, I will do you no harm."

She glared at him, and gripped the oar harder, "Ye tried to slit me throat. I'm not quite so forgivin' of that, Commodore."  
Norrington stared at her, balefully, his eyes darkening, as the blood dribbled a hideous pattern over his cheek. They stood there, in that seething, loaded silence, Norrington's fingers flexing as if he were attempting to grope for the words to convince her not to kill him. She looked like a feral cat as she stepped backwards, putting some distance between them.

Norrington sighed, and continued, softly, "I am unarmed, and no threat to you, miss. And, if you truly intended to kill me,  
then you would have done so by now."

Anamaria lowered the oar slightly, but jutted her chin. "I can still kill ye, Commodore."

Norrington had no chance to answer. The small boat suddenly lurched upward and slammed down, like an irate horse.  
Anamaria nearly toppeld with the sharp tilt, and Norrington took that chance to both catch her and snatch the oar away.  
She shuddered against his grip, and nearly clawed at him like a cat when she heard his harsh whisper in her ear,  
"Restrain yourself! Can you not see that we've run aground? The boat is not moving!"

He dropped the sharp grip on her and she flung herself away from him, nearly spitting with rage as his eyes darted from the water to the hull, narrowing.

"There is no reef in these waters that a boat could be snagged on, is there?" He asked quietly, as he peered at the sea, troubled.

Anamaria shook her head sharply. "We're too far at sea."

Norrington exhaled at that, raised an eyebrow. "Then what would suffice as a reasonable explanation as to what is under this boat that would halt its course?"

Norrington's question was answered when he stared at the cerilian depths of the ocean, and saw the huge, white beast drifting beneath them like a rising cloud. The prow shuddered when the kraken nudged the hull, and tilted it upward again. Anamaria squealed, clapped a hand over her mouth, sickened. Norrington cursed, swung her towards the mast and ripped the oar from her grip, pivoting until he was between her and the monster in the water. The boat shuddered from each blow, the mast shaking like a willow caught in a malestrom, each hit rattling down to her core, until the ship went still. Norrington watched in disbelief as the monster's tenticle rose through the air, soaring high above them, the water dribbling down like rain, and then silently slide back beneath the depths, as the thing rippled away, the waves pitching the boat, and the silence eerie with the thunder of his heartbeat.

Anamaria crouched on the deck, heaving and shaking as she forced herself to swallow down her terror, and make the pathetic attempt to glide non-chalantly over to the edge of the deck, and peer down into the waters.

"The beast be gone." She announced curtly, giving Norrington's oar a scathing look. "I don't think that bit o' wood would do much good against a devil like that."

Norrington, pale and shaken, sat the oar down with a shake of his head. "Indeed." 


	31. Murderwd

Though he kept that sneer fixed firmly on his lips, it curled into a grimace of overwhelming pain and then the dark, searing torpor as his flesh fell away, dribbled off of his mortal frame like water, pooled into abyss deep horror in his gut and finally yielded to disbelief.  
The curse felt like what Jack imagined drowning to be, everything engulfed in the dark, his breath seizing in his now unnecessary lungs, his knees quaking in their threat to collapse as Jack staggered and almost toppled.

The gold burned against his clenched fingers, as he held the horrible thing, his blood so warm it hurt, the minute sting of the cut being the only familiar sensation that anchored him to the mortal world. And, even now, the trickle of blood had stopped. Jack stared, transfixed as the coin glittered out from the cage of his finger gasped from behind him, his breath sharp as he scuttled to the refuge of the corner, shaking and looking sick. Jack's decayed lips quirked, forced themselves to widen, framed the glitterng teeth with rot.

"Now, This is interesting...." He spoke, as he flung an arm out into the shaft of light and the bones glimmered from beneath the linen sleeve. Memories trickled back, of the old torture of Barbossa's sword impaling him, the sickening sound of his own body being sundered as Barbossa stood over him, cackling. Jack shuddered anew, wondering how in the hell he could ever have thought dying was such a casual thing.

Bootstrap lurched forward, a groping hand gripping Jack's wrist and twisting it, as he stared at the bones, flinched at how cold they felt, flung them away, panting.

Jack cocked what remained of his eyebrow, and scowled. "Now that was rather rude, were aboard the Pearl with its undead crew, and then faced the no doubt decidedly unpleasant experience of the ocean's deepest circle of hell, and now you're getting all skittish over a bit of a bone? That's hardly befitting, Bootstrap."

Bootstrap stared at him for a long moment, and then jabbed a finger upward to the shaft of light. "The moonlight, Jack."

Jack tilted his head."There is a full moon out, and the presense of its lunar illumination is hardly anything to be noted, Bootstrap."

Bootstrap sighed impatiently. "And just how do ye plan on hiding yore bones under its light,  
Jack? Do ye really expect Cap'n Jones to not notice that yore undead now?"

Jack scowled at that now obvious point, and stepped back into the darkest corner of his cell,  
as his flesh resumed its normal humanity. He gave Bootstrap a cheeky grin and a shrug of his shoulders. "See? Problem solved!"

Bootstrap shook his head. "And what if Jones decides to bring ye updeck?"

Jack narrowed his eyes, and raised his chin. "And what if he does? In the very unlikely event that he does decide to grace me with his decidedly unwanted presence, perhaps you may enlighten me as to what he can threaten me with? Death is now a bit out of his tentacled grasp, wouldn't you say?"

"Aye..it is."Bootstrap admitted relunctantly,"But the Pearl-she can still be sank,Jack."

Jack waved a hand as if he could sweep away the pitfalls of the plan he was cobbling together.  
"I never said I had all the details worked out to perfection, or even possibility, did I?"

Jack's rant was interupted by the sudden thud of the hatch overhead, the trickle of the wet light leaking down the drenched wooden stairs. Bootstrap hastily scuttled back into his corner,  
worked his face into a detached, bored mask, as Jack crouched like a trapped animal in the sliver of darkness,tensing, his fingers latched onto his dagger that he had shoved into his boot.

There was only silence, as the Bosun lurched his hulking body down, flanked by an equally glowering crewmember that resembled a decaying eel. Both halted in front of Jack's cage,  
and Jack swallowed hard as Jone's hated shadow slid down, and engulfed them all, as he glided forward, only stopping when he was inched away from the bars of the cell.  
There was the sickening hiss of water and drowning breath heaved out from one of his apendages,  
the bulbous sack underneath his cobbled hat straining like a balloon with his exhalation of long-awaited glee.

"Ahh....a caged bird with broken wings..." Jone's lilt held the roar of the sea as he gave the Bosun a curt nod. The bosun sprung into obedience, unlocking Jack's cage, the key squeaking, as Jack watched warily, waiting.

He had buried both of his hands deep within the confines of his side, bowed and almost appearing to cower as he masterfully hid any exposed flesh in the shadows of his hat.

"And what do you intend to do when you find that my wings aren't as out of commission as you suppose,  
mate?"

It was a languid, mocking purr as Jack gave Jones an eerie, mocking bow with a flourish. Jones considered him with that long, slow stare, the triumphant chortle burbling up like broken glass. Bootstrap did not even have time to cry out as Jack was suddenly engulfed in a strangling web of cruel tenticles and the biting sting of a cutlass to his leg. Jack shuddered as the tentacles glided over his flesh, rested over his shoulders, a perverse caress of ownership, as Jack fought the urge to kick and was slammed down to the floor as Jones released his punishing grip with another chuckle.

"Ahhhh, Jack Sparrah...the possibilities are endless, and I've a long time to explore them."

Jack rubbed his throat with a wince. "And what unpleasant possibilities might those be, mate? Would it not save you and me both a bit of time and kill me outright?"

Jone's mirthless smile was casual and cruel as he gave Jack a baleful stare."Do ye fear death?"

Jack's dark eyes were burning with some inscrutible emotion as he only whispered, "No."

Jones bulked at the curt reply, but allowed the sneer to emerge and cover his shock at the answer.

"Honestly, mate, that's a rather ill-concieved question. If I feared death, would it not be ludicrious to suggest my demise at your hands? I know it's a wee bit dubious, but I was very sincere in offering the solution as to what to do with me."

Jack forced a glittering grin as Jones stiffened in suprise. "And what do ye have to gain in death, Sparrah?  
Ye believe where yore goin's a bit more pleasant than here?"

Jack's grin grew even wider."Curiosity, mate. Think of those uncharted waters, and what may lie beyond that last horizon."

"There will be no horizon for the likes of ye, Sparrah."

There was another laden silence, building like a storm as Jack only chuckled and shook his head.

"That horizon was denied you long ago, with your betrayal, mate. I don't think they have horizons in hell."

Jones snarled, raised his cutless for the kill, reared back, and fell down on Jack like a tidal wave.  
Jack felt nothing, but the cold sea water and slimed appendages hurling him downward, choking his breath,  
the cutlass hacking him down. Jack felt the floor beneath him, saw Jones rising over him like a god passing his final sentence, saw his blade arching high and silver in the light and then bury itself hilt deep into his chest. Jack's flinch was bone-deep from the shock, and he forced himself to go limp and still, eyes sliding shut.  
He heard Bootstrap's howl of anguish, Jones' hissing dismissal of his death, the crew standing around in their collective torpor,either in shock or awaiting orders.

Jones rose, wiped the blade clean on Jack's sodden vest, gave Jack's corpse a long, scathing glare and then a languid grin of triumph to Bootstrap.

"Mayhaps you want to say yore farewells.I think it a befittin' tribute to *Captain Jack Sparrah* that his loyal first mate be the one to dump his wretched flesh to the deeps."

Bootstrap choked in horror, as he turned to Jones, almost pleading, "I can't. Cap'n, I-"

"Ye can, and ye will. Sparrah's gone, but 'is ship is still on the waters. It'd be a rather pitiful thing if that ship full of crew were to share his fate on account of ye."

Bootstrap shivered, but nodded. "Aye, Cap'n. I'll see it done."

Jones smirked at that."I thought ye would." 


	32. Driftwood

There was nothing but the curt silence as they gave Jack's corpse a last sneer. Jones chuckled as he loped over the body, pausing to leer at his fallen enemy with a strange look in his baleful eyes. Bootstrap kept his head bowed, and his mouth shut as a trap,  
lips whitening in the effort to keep back the words. They finally drifted up the stairwell,  
leaving Bootstrap alone with Jack at last. He cast a long,worried look at the hatch, shuddering under the strain that a mouse might know while awaiting for the hawk to strike again.  
Jack snickered merrily as he opened his eyes and sat up, as Bootstrap startled and glared.

"I was wondering,mate, if you would be so kind as to give me a fitting eulogy before you commit my earthly remains to the depths as Ol' Fishface has commanded?"

Bootstrap scowled at that."I'll weep no tears at yore passin', Jack. Naught until ye actually pass on. And then, they be tears of gratitude."

Jack's lips curled into a pout as he sniffed out,"Now, that is no befitting tribute at all,  
there is something complimentary you can say about my passing that's a bit more charitable than that?"

Bootstrap smirked wryly."You and I be pirates, don't weep at a pirate's passin.  
They cheer as the hatch drops and the rope does its work."

Jack uneasily lay a palm over his throat,the memories of the attempted hanging still making his throat ache. "You've no idea, mate."

Bootstrap's eyes were full of sorrow as he gazed out at the black waves, dark water that held the unknown number of his own tears as he shook his head and murmured,"I may not,Jack,  
but my son does."

Jack winced at the mention of the loss as he only nodded, and blinked back the sudden,invasive moisture that blurred the world. "He's a fine man, should be proud of him."

Bootstrap gave him a smile laced with unspeakable loss, and paternal pride. "I am. When ye get off the Dutchman, make sure he knows that, Jack."

Jack nodded."I have more than a nagging suspicion that Will already knows, if, and when I have the misfortune of crossing blades with dear Will Turner, or his rum-burning wench,  
it will be my most gratuitous honor to pass that on."

Bootstrap blinked back tears as he nodded."Thank ye, Jack."

Jack lingered in that uncomfortable territory for as long as he could bear it, and then almost guiltily sighed. "Not to revisit an unpleasant subject, and I only do this out of great need, but how exactly do you propose we dispose of my earthly remains, mate?"

Bootstrap raised an eyebrow, and gestured towards the hatchdoor. "You heard Cap'n's orders,  
Jack. I'm to dump ye overboard. And it will have to be soon, or else Cap'n will be wonderin'  
why I'm neglectin' me duties to watch a corpse."

Jack nodded grimly, dark eyes narrowing. "Overboard it is, then. Would you be so kind as to arrange a burial shroud for my internment to the deeps?"

Bootstrap halted at that, puzzled. Jack sighed, waved an impatient hand."Imagine,if you will,  
the joy of Jones as he watches you dutifully fling my hansome corpse overboard, only to discover that I'm bones in the moonlight, unfleshed, and therefore, very much undead...or not where the deceased are suddenly found living are a very complicated matter indeed."

Bootstrap held up the filthy, murk soaked remains of a canvas from a sail. "How this be?"  
Jack stared at it, and finally nodded. He clapped a hand over Bootstrap's shoulder.  
"You always were a good mate, Bootstrap. And I will be certain as to pass on your good wishes to your son when our blades, or paths cross again, whichever is sooner."

Bootstrap nodded, ducked his head."Thank ye, Jack."

Jack tilted his head to the side, ear already catching the waiting eyed the gray canvas, mussed with stains and slimed with stagant water, and gave Bootstrap a grin that bordered on a grimace.  
Jack lowered himself prone onto the cloth,cringing at the invasive cold and wet that was lapping over his bandana. He took two steadying breaths, and then stopped breathing,allowed his limbs to go slack. He forced his face to adopt the rigor mortis snarl, and let his eyes fall open, grow vancant and staring at a point that no living person was supposed to see.  
Bootstrap knelt beside him, as Jack nodded permission. Bootstrap carefully tucked the sheets over him until Jack was in a loosely woven cacoon, that was slack enough for him to force his way out without much effort. Jack shuddered when the grey fell over his eyes.

"Jack?" Bootstrap's uncertain question was met with an elaborate shrug beneath the canvas "Aside from being deceased, I'm doing fine. As you were."

Bootstrap eased Jack's body over his shoulder, easily hoisting him bundle heard the loud protesting creak of the worn wooden steps as Bootstrap lurched upward on deck.  
The corpse of Jack Sparrow was dropped over the Dutchman's hull, with the only eulogy being the splash of the water. Bootstrap lingered at the deck to watch the canvas bob in the water, grow from sepia to the color of murk and darkness as the ship slowly lurched away indifferently. Jones watched the corpse floating over the water, silently.

________________________________________________________________________________

Lord Cutler Beckett lay comfortably nestled in the silken sheets of his bloated opulance.  
His coy smirk of the perpetually narcissistic and the well-honed thoughts were weaving their peace in time with the lull of the Antigone's rocking. Mercer was all scars and sneers as he gave him the rather unpleasant news that none of Norrington's crew were willing to divulge what had happened on the night of the hurricane. The answers were not forth-coming with bribery, nor were they gouged out by a few well earned floggings. Mercer reported that Gillette-the injured sailor who Norrington held such a high regard for-had endured the beating with a stoic indifference that was both awe-inspiring, and had accepted the news with a pristine sip of tea, and the gently-snarled orders that the men be tended to with lavish food and better accomodations than the brig. Two more had died because of their treatment in the dark muck of the ship's bowels, and Beckett was shrewd enough to know that killing a member of the crew was the best way to provoke an unbreakable hatred of himself and a wall of solidarity between the prisoners.

His pleasant torpor was interupted when something cold and wet dripped over his face, an invasive jab to his ribs. Beckett's eyes flew open, his hand groped for his pistol, and he was given a resounding blow to the head for his troubles. His skull ached with the reverberation of his brain thudding against his cranium, and he gasped in indignant anger and shock.  
He raised the pistol high, prepared to call his men when his weapon was abruptly flung out of his curled fingers and tossed across the room.

Beckett shot upward, his nightclothes and sheets mussed, his pristine wig perched like a mocking bird over the dresser.

"I knew that prissy wig didn't suit ye, mate, but I had no idea that your real folicles were lacking as well."

The languid purr was dark and wicked as he saw Jack Sparrow casually lounging in Beckett's desk chair.  
Sparrow raised a smug eyebrow, and gave him an irritatingly familiar grin as he waved a non-chalant hand over the various documents stacked in pristine piles over the mahogony. Beckett was agog and clearly struggling to register the nightmare that was emerging before him. And Jack seemed to be more than willing to give him time to gather his shattered thoughts. The pirate rocked back in the chair, fiddling with the feathered plume and probably pocketing a few things as well. Beckett swallowed hard, and Jack happily noted the flicker of shock yielding to that unflappable mask of chilled detachment.

"I will not trouble myself with undue thoughts about how you have managed to board the Antigone, or the madness that has brought you here where you will soon be sent to the brig and executed."

Jack presented a theatrical look of hurt as he brushed some of the sea muck away from his sullied nails, and turned to Beckett. "And what makes you think I've any intention of going to the brig, mate? If I've the wherewithall to clamor aboard this claptrap of a boat, appear in your bedchambers without alerting your keepers and whatnot,  
do you really think that I'll be going anywhere other than where I please? You are hardly talking sense."

Beckett sighed with well-practiced patience. 


	33. The Mark

Jack gave Beckett a wolfish grin, as he gracefully slid in one deliberate side-step and allowed the moonlight to swath over his tense frame, sending the human flesh into a macabre sillouette of bone and sinew. The shifting shadows wove their fragmented version of mortal imagery, concealing bones and exposing them yet again. Jack heard Beckett's gasp of shock, as he stared, eyes narrowing in curt consideration. Jack allowed his now lipless mouth to curl into a feral sneer of glittering, rotten glory.

Jack casually twirled around as he finally halted and stepped into the wan candle light, lingering by the window hatch,  
and sending a longing glance at the ocean. He heard Beckett's tense breath quickening, the shifting of bed clothing. Jack turned and watched in amusement as Beckett was already belting a dark maroon robe over his gown, and rising from the sheets. Beckett masterfully forced down the shock and replaced it with the bored, regal detachment and almost unearthly calm. He stood, chin raised, expectant and clearly waiting for Jack to do something.

"Captain Jack Sparrow. One would think that after our last unpleasant encounter, you would have the intelligence to to avoid further altercation."

The words were cold, crisply delivered laced with smug triumph as Beckett gave Jack a knowing smile and a pointed glance at the branded P on Jack's wrist.

Jack's eyes narrowed, and he felt both the words and the memories they invoked like a wound. The sudden upheaval must have flickered in some betraying wince on his face, because Beckett nodded as if something ugly had been confirmed. Jack's eyes shifted from lingering pain to vicious obsidion, as he tensed.

Beckett's words were barely breathed as he gave Jack a coy smirk, and ventured closer, "I know that I have scarred you in ways that cannot be viewed so easily as the brand, Jack."

Jack grinned mirthlessly, the brittle chuckle fragmenting in the tension. "Is that any compensation for the pretty parting gift I left ye, mate? The mark I left on ye is so ludicriously visible, I'd have to be blind not to see it. And no amount of prissy wigs and bloated sense of propriety can erase that."

Jack noted the bone deep shudder that rippled through Beckett's frame, the tension as those pale eyes flickered with some emotion and then fixed on Jack's brand like a target.

"There is nothing to erase, Captain Sparrow. Nor do I have a need to hide. You knew the consequences of your actions when you chose to ignore the orders of your commander, and set loose the cargo instead of delivering those slaves to the proper destination."

Jack exhaled the breath that seemed lodged in his lungs, rage seering like that long ago brand. " Ye know, there's a special place in hell reserved for betrayers, mutineers, and bastards who happily cage men for a profit."

Beckett's smile was bored as he serenely folded his arms over his chest and gave Jack a long and scathing look.  
"I do not trouble myself with worrying about vague possibilities of what might be in the next world, Jack. Look around,  
if you will. You can see the tangible rewards for my actions quite visible in the here and now."

Jack chuckled at the irony. "Oh? When the vague possibilities of what might be became a non-negotiable reality,  
you were squealing like a stuck pig, and begging for mercy. Do you care to tell me how rewarded you felt when I so graciously carved that bird-shapes scar across your back?"

Beckett shuddered, eyes suddenly dipping downward in shame, as the scars on his back started itching as if in rebellion against the sordid truth.

_______________________________________-

Memory flashback, sorry for so little transition....

It was utter foolishness to expect the loss of the slaves to either go unnoted, or unpunished. There had been only two day's passing since Jack allowed the 'cargo' to escape back to shore, and another slaver's ship had made port carrying the infamous Cutler Beckett. Jack had only heard snatches of news about the young man....that he was a rising star for the East India Trade company, that he was efficient and cruel, and already rising through the ranks.  
Jack was below deck, intently mapping out the course of the Pearl, when he heard Gibb's panicking bellow, and then the door to his cabin being abruptly kicked open. Jack scowled at the interuption, showing no fear, and only mild suprise to see the Mercer's scarred glare, and Beckett's pristine vindictivness, surrounded by at least a dozen redcoats. Beckett only gave a curt nod, and Jack was suddenly hauled to his feet, and clapped in those hatefully familiar irons.

They dragged Jack updeck, and herded his bewildered crew over to one side of the ship, keeping them at bay with their pistols drawn. Jack was given a cursory summary of events by Beckett, complete with dripping sarcasm and bloated manners.

And, suddenly the quiet was overwhelming, as Beckett stared at his prisoner.

"Since you alone know which shores you have dumped the cargo, I will extend to you one chance to divulge to me what I wish to know." Beckett raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting a hasty cringing reply, complete with Jack's begging.

Jack sighed, narrowed his eyes. "And what if I weren't in a divulgetory mood?"

Beckett made no answer, but only nodded to Mercer. He gave Jack a sneer, and non-chalantly brandished the heated iron he had been stoking with the lantren.

Jack's lip curled into a sneer, as he tilted his head and winked at them, before his eyes went from laughing to obsidion. With a flourish, he slid both sleeves to his elbows, presented his wrists as if he were flaunting jewels instead of offering flesh. The only sound was the soft clink of shackles as he lay his palms down across the table, the merry laughter faltering to bitter, breaking silence.

Cutler cast Jack a long, patient look of boredom.

"Might as well make it two, mate." Jack stared upward, his eyes searing, and expectant, his body taunt.

Gibbs recoiled as if he had been slapped, exhaled air with a vicious gulp and shook his head with a sharp jerk.  
" No! Jack, ye can't-"

" Mr. Gibbs..." The word fell like a brick from the pirate's strained, weary voice as Jack only shook his head, and tilted his chin, the mouth sliding from that grim line to that sad, accepting smile. " 'S going to happen, either way, mate. You know that."

"Jack!" The pirate swayed in his chains, hands weaving an arch between them as he waved a hand in dismissal.  
" 'S going to be alright."

Jack saw the flash of Gibb's throat constricting as if he were choking down a rock, watched Gibb's eyes widen with sudden, stunned anguish as they both heard the barked, curt order for the brand to be lit. Jack's spine twitched in instinctive revulsion,  
his eyes narrowed as he clenched his jaw, and gave Beckett and the gathering gawkers a cheeky grin. He tilted his head to Cutler, his eyes sliding to black hatred as he thrust both wrists forward, the feral leer scathing as he waited.

The challenge was neither unnoticed, nor appreciated, as Beckett stiffened, and made a slow, deliberate gesture of consideration as he brushed off non-existant dust from the lacy sleeve. His eyes slowly ventured from the flame-tipped iron, to the bronzed hands that were so brazenly draped over Jack's knees. That grim little mouth worked into a pouting,  
considering line, as he crinkled his nose in distain.

"Perhaps you think that by offering such a dubious sacrifice that I might be swayed to show mercy, Mr. Sparrow."

Jack gave an exaggerated sigh, and rolled his eyes heavenward, mouthing the words, "Captain, Captain Jack Sparrow."

Cutler's eyes narrowed in calculation, as he gave the pirate a cruel, coy smirk. Rising again, he glided the few steps's distance between them, smugly, until he and his captive were merely inches apart.

"Mr. Sparrow, did you honestly belief that a desolute wretch such as yourself would be able to flout the authority of the Crown with impunity? What does this do with your misplaced sense of honor?"

Jack only gave him a gold-flecked grin in return, that didn't reach his eyes. "I know that 's better to be a desolute wretch flouting the authority of the Crown than be a brocaded pounce who tortures in its name.'S no honor in that,  
Beckett."

Cutler only gave him an elegantly dismissing snort, as he ruffled his silk sleeves, ran fingers through the powered wig, and gestured absently in Jack's direction.

"Brand him." The tone was scathing and bored as one of the officers abruptly snatched Jack's shackled wrist, wretched his arm forward, and gripped the thin wrist with a grunt and a snarl. Jack only raised his searing eyes to Cutler's and was heartened to see the man's eye dart away. Bootstrap bellowed in protest as the soldier abruptly swung the brand, and lay it across Jack's hand with a wicked sneer. Jack nearly swooned at the brutal iron burning into his flesh. It grew teeth, bit into his bones, turned from an inferno to ice from a pain so vicious and sudden that Jack had no time to react. The pirate shuddered from his core and fought the instinct to curl into fetal position and wail. Jack shut his eyes for a long, long moment, lips disappearing into his teeth, head 's free hand clenched into a ball, dug nails into his palm until they left bloodied indentions. His throat, sweated and grimed heaved against the choked back scream, and his shoulders were shaking.

Minute muscles flickered around his jaw as it clenched, bright sweat rolled down from bronzed skin, . There was no sound except the sickening hiss of burning metal meeting raw skin, and the agonized wince Jack couldn't choke down, the small grunt of pain that spoke so much more than wailing ever could. The pain had to be blinding. Mercer snatched away the iron, smiled down at Jack's marred flesh, passed the burning thing off to an officer, and guaged the pirate's reaction.

The back of his hand was charred and grey, the wounded flesh and fluids shimmering dully in the light,  
the large P burned deep and every nerve twanging with aversion of the numb torpor and the agony.  
The metal was removed, but the fire in his flesh only deepened when Jack slid his hand off the table.  
Jack forced his fingers to uncurl, raised his scarred hand to his disbelieving eyes and casually blew over the wafting smoke.

" 'Snot very pretty, is it?" 


	34. Revelations

The old violation of the brand throbbed in hated rememberance as Jack scowled down at the charred letter adorning his wrist. He had expected the brand to burn flesh, and hurt, not ache like dead flesh that was seared beyond feeling. Beckett's own fingers strayed over his own back with a grimace, running his hand over the dulled, raised lines of the nearly two-foot scar. He had only seen it once, after the bleeding had stopped, and it was a rather skillful rendition of a bird in flight, the wings delicately arched, the sun at the avian's back. It was a violation of a magnitude that Beckett had not felt before or sense.  
The minute flinch made Jack inwardly smirk in satisfaction. It was the one and only time that he had ever engaged in the torture of a another human being, and Beckett was the only man Jack had ever met who truly earned that mocking mar against his flesh. He graced his own palm over his seared wrist. It was a bitter reconciliation, as well, to merge the inocent privateer who had earnestly believed his initial transport was nothing more than delivering inocent goods across the water. The brand has become an identity, then a label,  
and then a shackle that Jack found he could never free himself from. He had seen the sliding hatred glowering in so many eyes when they looked at the hated "P." p for prisoner, p for penance, p for pirate...Jack had considered the one scar that defined his existance to be the one that he had ernestly never intended to earn.

Beckett's sigh of inpatience drew Jack's attention back to the rich bedchambers.

Ruefully, Jack tipped his head back with a rolling of his shoulders, the loud pop of bone against linen all the louder for the cavernous silence that had suddenly fallen around him.  
Beckett was eying him with prim irritation, eyes sliding nearly shut as he mentally calculated all aspects of this new situation, and how he could use it to his advantage. Beckett rose from his bed, and after casting Jack a siddled glare, paused to drape and belt his silken robe over his night clothing. Sighing with a grand show of patience, Beckett calmly lay two glasses on the mahogony table, and then poured the wine with another elegant sneer.

"You will forgive me if the liquor at hand is unlike the swine's swill that you undoubtably consume until you are oblivious, Captain Sparrow."

Jack smirked as he slid back into the opposite chair and lay his bootheels on the table.  
Ignoring the small glass, he opted for the bottle and tilted it in salute to Beckett as he helped himself to a long-awaited swig, and then grimaced in distaste.

"And you will forgive me if I consider swine's swill to be a bit more stout than this pig's urine that you consider to be a fine drink, mate. I've had bilge water that's got more taste. The necessity of social lubrication aside, I suggest we move on to the more..pressing matters at hand, shall we?"

Beckett raised an eyebrow as he sippped the eyes narrowed over the rim of his glass as he carefully set the wine down, and paused, nonplussed.

"It would be odd for a desolute pirate to board my ship with the rather benign intentions of a friendly chat."

Jack smirked merrily. "Aye, long odds for that to happen, given our dubious history. We've had many glorious chats, mate. It wasn't my fault that they were less than friendly."Jack's voice darkened as he stared levelly at Beckett.

"My intutition tells me that there's little point in politely venturing an inquiry as to why Davy Jones saw fit to board the Pearl. And judging from your lack of reaction of seeing me bones in the moonlight, you know of the curse. The odd thing is, that these entirely seperate events have only your prissy little meddling in common. I'd like an explanation as to why."

The last word ended in a nearly gutural purr as Jack waltzed back into the moonlight and allowed the silver arch to wash over his undead flesh again.

Beckett shivered at the macabre sight, and forced back the outward shudder as he offered Jack a polite, condensending smile.

"Allow me to point out a few facts that you may have overlooked in attempting to cobble together completely random events into some cohesive explanation, Mr. Sparrow. Captain Jones is a rather unpredictable, and volital individual whose little aquatic pet has enough strength to sink ships at his whim. Do you think it wise for the East India Trading Company to have dealings with such as that?"

Jack squinted, turning that information over, as Beckett crisply continued, "As for my knowledge of the curse, , rest assured that my knowing of it, or how it works is hardly unique, or even noteworthy. The tales of the battle between you and Barbossa are well-known throughout the ocean.  
While I normally do not pay attention to the sordid gossip coming from drunken wrecks who've poisoned what little sense they've left, the fact that you appear before me as bones in the moonlight are credence enough to know the curse is real."

Jack scowled at that, and looked down at his bones, with a resigned shrug. "Well, when you put it that way, it is a bit obvious......"

Beckett only allowed a cold little smile.

"Rest assured, Mr. Sparrow, that I will satisfy your curiosity as to where I garnered my information.  
I believe you will recall a former crewmate you had in your employ...the woman named Anamaria?" 


	35. Chapter 36

The mention of Anamaria s name felt like a blow, as Jack tilted his head warily. He concealed the shock with masterfully deceptive nonchalance. Beckett's smirk of triumph wilted into irritation when Jack indulged in an exaggerated yawn.

"I've had many a woman in my employ, if that s what you want to call it. Expecting me to recall all their names is a bit akin to counting drops in the ocean, mate. It is a rather sizable number."

Jack had to choke back the snicker as Beckett's eyebrows climbed higher and higher on his forehead. Grinning wolfishly, he gave Beckett a friendly clap on the shoulder.

" I guess you're not a eunuch after all."

There was only an insipid second, maybe two between the triumphant announcement of Anamaria' s name from Beckett 's mouth, and the sudden flash of silver before Jack's cutlass was at his throat. Beckett scowled disdainfully at the blade, but shivered inwardly when Jack allowed the edge of it to draw a trickle of blood at his heaving throat.

"Mayhaps the more relevant question is how you came to know that Anamaria was in my employ. Where is she?"

All trace of that foppish, quicksilver mirth had disappeared, as Jack's growled question slid between them, waiting. Beckett's bulging eyes swept from Jack s certain grip on his hilt to its arched path ending at his neck, and back again. Beckett gave Jack a cruel, serene smile as he merely sighed a calming breath, pausing before he spoke.

" She is not here, Jack"

The blade sliced in earnest now, as Jack lurched forward. They were inches apart, and Beckett could feel the unwelcome stench of Jack's breath as he snarled out, "Where is she?"

The confrontation was interrupted by the abrupt knock at the door, followed by Mercer's curt inquiry.

Jack hissed out, "The next words out of your mouth determine if ye live or die"

Beckett rolled his eyes, and blandly spoke to Mercer, "Mr. Mercer, bring Mr. Gillette from the brig to my chamber, alone."

There was a hesitation before Mercer answered, "Aye, sir." The footsteps retreated, as did the shadow beneath the door. Jack frog-marched Beckett flush to the wall, keeping him pinned there by the cutlass to his heart. "You're just bound and determined to provoke me into running my blade through your weasly little guts, aren't ye? I ll give you one more chance to save your sorry skin, mate. Where is she?"

Beckett only curled his lip in disgust and Jack startled at the sudden sound of the knock on the door, the odd sound of chains being scraped against the floor, and Mercer's cruel announcement.

"He's here, Lord Beckett, but I'll not vouch for his ability to answer any questions. The brig s made his reason questionable, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Mercer. That will be all." Beckett answered smoothly, as he turned to Jack with an irritated gesture.

"I must be allowed to open the door, Jack, or Mr. Mercer will soon wonder why I ordered a prisoner to be brought to my chambers, and then left unguarded and alone at the hall."

Jack gave him a curt little nod, as Beckett rose and opened the door. Mercer's scarred, hated face emerged with its characteristic scowl as he gave the room a scathing glare. Seeing nothing amiss, he simply shoved his prisoner through the door, and shuffled off at Beckett s dismissal. Jack's jaw went slack and Beckett's merely twitched in annoyance at the filth that had entered his private quarters.  
Gillette staggered forward a few lurching steps, heaving out the gurgled breath from the water in his lungs, his naval regalia in shreds over his mottled flesh. He looked slumped and broken; a far cry from the rigid, unyielding purpose Jack had come to identify with any military man. The bad arm had been rebound, but it hung useless and curled at his side in a ragged, make shift sling, his dark hair falling over his face, and his eyes nearly slid shut from the torpor of the brig.

Jack exhaled, clearly troubled as he recognized the former officer who had served under Norrington. The soldier was tense and trembling, his entire frame quaking so much, that he seemed to be on the verge of collapsing.

" Mr. Sparrow, may I present to you Officer Gillette. I am sure that you will find it pleasurable to converse with an old friend. Until very recently, Officer Gillette sailed under the command of Commodore Norrington. Sadly, their ship had the misfortune of sailing headlong into a hurricane, and subsequently sank, leaving only a few survivors, among them, Commodore Norrington, and Mr. Gillette."

The crisp, indifferent announcement complete, Beckett only savored Jack's head tilting in disbelief as he looked Gillette over, in shock. Gillette flinched when he felt Jack's eyes meet his, and he suddenly stiffened at the realization of who he was facing. Swallowing hard, his head jerked sharply, his eyes widening, as he breathed a disbelieving sigh.

"You!"

Jack recoiled, uncertainly, eyeing both Beckett and Gillette.  
Gillette sucked in a sudden breath, shuddering as he reared back in the chair Mercer had dropped him. Jack. Jack Sparrow. He shot Beckett a shocked look, as Beckett only nodded in prim satisfaction at his obvious distress. Gesturing towards Gillette, Beckett announced,

"I believe that Mr. Gillette has the answers to the questions you seek, Jack. Have a care with your questions, though. He still seems a bit muddled from the ordeal of the ship sinking."

When Beckett lay a condensending hand over Gillette's wounded arm and squeezed, Jack recoiled when he heard Gillette's choked back whimper, and the quake of agony that gripped his already trembling body. Gillette hissed in pain, slammed his eyes shut, and tensed helplessly against the cruel grip. Jack snarled and lunged forward, flicking his blade over Beckett s wrist and drawing forth more blood.

"Hell's too good for ye."

Gillette blinked numbly as the sudden agony slacked off, as Beckett carefully withdrew his hand, and retreated coolly a few steps away from the enraged, undead pirate. Kneeling so he could catch the snatches of words, Jack leaned towards Gillette's bowed head. The man's eyes shot open, as he flinched.

What do you know of Annamaria, sailor?" Gillette's lip twisted in his teeth, as he stared at Jack for a long, long moment. Finally, he grunted out, "She and the Commodore set out on a clapboard dinghy in pursuit of you."  
Jack did not miss the accusation, or the bitter, weary resignation from Gillette as he glared at Beckett.

"They left the ship a week ago, to the open ocean. I have not had word from the Commodore since we boarded the Antigone." Jack merely nodded, as the thoughts churned and new questions arose. He gave Beckett a cheeky grin as he tapped his cheek, thoughtfully. 


	36. Lucky Shot

The empty sky held no answers, and the churning water held no interest to Anamaria as she watched the last bit of golden light fall over the ocean, the failing light merging into the abysmal black again. Night had come softly, another day had crawled its languid pace over time, and had disappeared. The dinghy had started out resembling a cage, and now, she wondered if it would be her grave. Torpor fell over everything, the lurching pace of the dinghy, the absence of land or wind. The silence of the deep was overwhelming when the ocean was as still as glass. Jack had once told her these eerie moments of stillness was the 'doldrums.' She hated it, whatever name it had. The searing emptiness, the isolation, the unnerving realization that she was so very small, and the endless water so vast. Memories of the Pearl's merriment made her heart ache, uncertainty over her frail, vague plans gnawed at her. And, rather than allowing her fear to show, she concealed with silence, or a snarl.

Norrington was enduring his own tortured introspection. The fate of his men felt like a noose around his neck, every hour tainted with self-loathing that he was free from Beckett, and his men at Beckett's mercy. He grit his teeth in hatred of the name. Beckett's infuriating serenity, and complete lack of anything human beyond the pristine manners unnerved him. Norrington's dark musings were interrupted by the sudden clack of Anamaria's boothills against the deck. She had leapt down and landed on her feet, rolling catlike over the rigging and rising to her feet, arching in the darkness.

Norrington raised an eyebrow and watched as she peered out into the black. She seemed transfixed by something over the water, rigid and watching over the starboard side. Hissing, she waved him over as she drew her pistol and slowly inched away from the side with a shudder. Alarmed,Norrington rose, the question dying in his throat when he felt the prow tremble and the wood groan as something thudded the bottom of the boat.

It was a languid blow, barely rippling through the water. Norrington saw the quiet trails of bending waves, and the blanched tentacle in its serpentine glide through the water. Anamaria's eyes bulged as she carefully lurched to the center of the boat, exhaling in a shivering pant. Norrington swallowed hard, as he drew his own cutlass and crept silently over the pile of ropes to stand beside her. The waiting silence and the stillness of hell had suddenly fallen around them. Anamaria felt from the depths of her bones the sudden ice slithering over her stomach, as she raised the trembling pistol, and glanced at Norrington. He scowled at the water, eyes uneasily darting from the black to her and back to the water again.

"Be still," he hissed into her ear, "And give me your pistol."

Anamaria tilted her head, the retort almost flung out as the boat shuddered again, strong enough to topple them. She nearly slid off the deck, and recoiled instinctively when Norrington's steadying arms suddenly swept her against him. He felt her shiver against him, and he let go of her as if burned.

"I _did not_ want you to fall into the water." Norrington snarled as he pivoted suddenly. The Kraken's pale expanse was already rising like a moon beneath their boat, the arms lurching upward, the white beneath the waves growing larger and larger.

Norrington felt the abrupt cold of the pistol thrust into his hands as Anamaria gave him a glare.

"Maybe yore last act of mercy can be to shoot me first."

Norrington did not answer her, as he lowered himself nearly flush with the baseboard, and peered into the water. The Kraken's arms unfurled, their lengths coiling and undulating perversely at ease. Another blow to the boat sent Norrington to his knees, and he was nearly flung overboard. He heard Anamaria's cry behind him, as she cursed something about his being daft, but he paid her no heed.

"What is it waiting for? Why don' it just take us?" Anamaria whispered.

"Perhaps it is looking for something." Norrington answered, softly.

"That thing can take down ships with just one arm, Commodore. I don' think it's sparin' us because it's merciful."

The sound of the pistol shot seared the quiet with the sudden explosion. The Kraken's arm arched upward over the water, flailed like a whip, the boat nearly flipping as Anamaria fell to her knees and crouched in terror. The thing lashed at the water, furiously for a moment. Norrington was grasping the rigging to keep from falling off the boat, as it continued its bucking jerk beneath them. And, as suddenly as the thing emerged, there was a ripple, and a long, straight wake of waves before the thing darted downward. Norrington watched in torpor at the golden, bloodied eye that stared balefully at him, before the monster glided away and was gone.

Anamaria watched Norrington wilt into the deck, his considerable self-control nearly fragmenting from the realization of what he had just done. He was panting and shivering and looked nearly sick with shock as Anamaria stared dubiously at the water and then back at him, finding no answer.

Norrington curtly jabbed the pistol into her grip, as he cast the water a hateful glance, his trembling fingers digging through the ragged hair, and raking it over his face.

"Commodore?" Anamaria's inquiry was strangely soft and hesitant, as she peered at him, clearly at a loss as to what had just happened.

Norrington sighed, as he finally spoke, the explanation biting and weary. "I shot at its eye."

Anamaria did not bother to stop her jaw from gaping, as Norrington impatiently gestured towards the water. "I know of nothing else that could have been done to rectify the situation at hand to drive it off. I am sorry of my course of action displeases you."

Anamaria raised an eyebrow at that. "I'm not displeased at all, Commodore. I jus can't believe that ye just put a pistol shot into the eye of that beast, and we lived to tell of it. 'Snot many who can claim that."


	37. Deep Water

"Gentlemen, it seems that we've arrived at quite a quagmire, eh? An odd bit of dubious flotsam that's set an otherwise well-constructed path of thought into quite a tangled web of deception, and the like."

Jack offered brightly, as he glided between Gillette and Beckett, his smile wilting a bit when Beckett glared and Gillette's eyes bulged. Gillette flinched when Jack came within inches of him, a flicker of something dark and seething glittering in those fever-smeared eyes.

"You will accept my apologies if Mr. Gillette's answers were less than satisfactory to your questions, Mr. Sparrow. As I have said, the time in the brig has done precious little to loosen his tongue. Perhaps a more..punitive measure of persuasion is necessary."

Jack's eyes slid from Gillette's hunched back, to the regal, pristine monster who was indifferently watching the soldier tremble in the effort to stay upright. Gillette only grunted as he forced his bruised spine into straight submission, rising to sit rigid with pain in the chair where he had been dumped.

"Punish me as you will. I won't be persuaded any more than I was before." It was a choked sneer of frail defiance that was flung out with a rasped breath. Jack had hated the King's own for good reason, but he could not halt the reluctant admiration for such a valiant and futile promise. Gillette's mouth twisted into a thin, determined line as he glared up at Beckett with a silent challenge. Beckett seemed to be distantly irritated as he eyed Gillette coolly. There was only the thunderous crack of the cane as Beckett swung it full force into Gillette's face. Jack recoiled from the sound of flesh splintering, and winced when he imagined the blinding pain from the blow. Gillette's head lulled, and rolled from the impact, the hot blood dribbling down his splintered lip onto his heaving chest, as he shuddered and rocked backwards. Beckett was poised to strike him again, heaving and rigid with barely restrained fury.

"I would question the wisdom of developing a habit of beating all the King's men if I were you, mate. You know these waters are thick with the naval ships. I don't think the Crown would fancy your treatment of his own soldiers very much."

Gillette stiffened in surprise as Jack continued his gliding backpedal towards the cabin door. Doubt had lessened some of the rage in Beckett's glower. "I'd naught be surprised at the least if the Navy decided to pay their respects to your Company, Beckett. I'm sure that the Crown would certainly be interested in your answers to their inquiries they've for you. After all, it's hard to fathom how such a man of your ilk wouldn't be worthy of the pomp and proper trimmin's that await a man who delivers the King's own back to him…alive."

He winked at Gillette, and shrugged to Beckett. "Aye, by my own reckoning…and mind you, my mind is sharp, and my wits are very clear on this-we spotted a Navy ship on the horizon, naught but a day ago. Funny thing, that. They seemed to be headed towards this fine vessel here."

Beckett's lip curled at that, the elegant snarl barely concealing his rancor. "And what exactly leads you to believe that I would accept the word of a pirate about the location of a naval vessel, Jack?"

Jack tilted his head, giving them both an unwelcome view of his glittering teeth as he smirked. "Ye can take my word, or leave it. " His shoulders hitched in a non-chalant shrug. "Ye might want to consider this, though, Beckett. Being all prissy and proper does not negate the fact that you've a ship full of soldiers that you've taken prisoner, and have treated less than befitting a man who's in the king's employ. What if it turns out that I'm not lying and you're wrong?"

Beckett's scowl deepened uneasily as Jack gave them both a triumphant bow. "I don't envy the responsibility of explaining torture as being the proper treatment that's due an officer of the crown, Beckett. As you were, gents!"

And before Beckett or Gillette could reply, Jack bolted from the cabin. Beckett shut his eyes in irritation when he heard Mercer's indignant bellow, Jack's bright shout of "Until next time, gents!," and the very loud splash that erupted over the deck. There was the thud of boots outside the door, the sharp knock, and Mercer's grim face emerging.

"Lord Beckett, the pirate jumped ship and escaped."

There was a long, curt sigh from Beckett as he put a palm against his forehead and shut his eyes, drawing in a cleansing breath. Tersely, he looked at Gillette, drumming his fingers against the mahogany desk.

At long last, he finally spoke, each word bitten off and forced. "Mr. Mercer, see to it that the watch is doubled. Any sighting of naval ships is to be reported directly to me. And…."

He glared at Gillette. "Increase the rations for the prisoners, and have the ship's surgeon inspect them. "

Mercer raised a dubious eyebrow to the odd order, but after seeing Beckett's seething, he merely nodded. "Yes, Lord Beckett."

The first thing that Jack noticed as he plunged to the depths, was how helpless he was against the churning abyss of black. The endless rolling of the tide pummeled him, slammed his face into the dark, then pitched him back into the other world of black sky and starlight. And even though Jack was undead, now, and not subject to drowning, he still choked on the water that flooded his lungs and vomited it back in one massive purge. It was a strange thing, to be completely alone with the water and the sky. The water writhed around him like a caress as he forced himself to be still, and gather his bearings. The night was mercifully serene as he gauged the distance by the North Star to the direction that he had told Gibbs to dock the Pearl.

It was a sizable distance, but with the Pearl being as dark as the night that concealed her, she could linger closer to Beckett's poncy boat and not fall in danger of her cannons. Sighing, Jack wished for rum,and started the long swim back to the Pearls' deck.


	38. The Return

The Pearl lived up to her name, as she lay on the waters, cloaked in cloud and shadow and almost invisible. Jack felt her, though, sensed her nearing like a dull ache, and then a vivid pain, as he dogpaddled his way through the breaking waves. It had been a long, tedious task to trek his way through the darkness. The stars gleamed dully, swelling the skies with their points of silvered light, but it was a moonless black, and not very much help in seeing. The water was mercifully peaceful, and he was unhindered by any encounters with some of the ocean's leviathans. Jack shivered, wondering what lived in the ocean's depths that remained unseen to the land-dwellers. He had encountered some of the things of the deep, in the waters and the human heart, and he did not know which one was more treacherous.

Indeed, his head was starting to throb from sorting out the fragmented bits and pieces of what he had learned. He was both thrilled, and anguished to learn that Anamaria was alive. They had not parted on the best of terms. While he did not know the cause of what bad blood might have festered between them, he was glad to know that she had scrapped together some existence outside the Pearl. He was not so charitable in his thoughts towards Norrington. Were it not for that ponce's monstrous pride, and foolish pursuit through the storm, Jack would have never had to have sullied his existence by being on the Antigone. Gillette would not have been left snarling like a beaten dog, and Jones would have never foisted his mad immortality upon him. Jack sighed at the self-righteous victimhood that suddenly felt like martyrdom. Indeed, what had he done to deserve this headache?

He paddled on, pondering. Clearly, Jones had been brought to heel rather sharp by Beckett. Jack grimaced at the notion that such a prissy white-wig such as Beckett now had the means to make Jones into a spineless lap-dog, coming when called, and all of that. Obviously, Jones was not happy with the arrangement, but Jack could see no logical explanation as to why Jones would heed any order of Beckett's.

And, there was also the perplexing issue of Norrington. Apparently, the man had not only survived the storm, he had salvaged most of his crew from the sinking ship and then bargained their lives continuing by going on the mad venture to pursue the Pearl in a clapboard dinghy. Jack had to snort at that. It was akin to Beckett demanding a hurricane be brewed from his dainty little tea cups…futile, and mad.

Surely there was no shame in sailing away from all these complexities that had naught to do with him. Norrington tried to kill him, Anamaria left the crew of her own accord, and he would soon be aboard the Pearl, and free to exit without firing a shot. Jack smirked at the easy resolution. Clearly, it was readily understood, quite neatly implemented, and he found no reason to argue with himself any further.

The Pearl was now in sight. Jack considered bellowing out an order or two just to see if the crew was keeping their vigilance like he had ordered, or if they were sleeping like babes being rocked to sleep by the water. It would be amusing to see, either way. Jack slowly swam to the bobbing side of the ship, oddly grateful that the invoked curse had strangely erased the fatigue that would normally accompany such a long trek. Indeed, any sensible man would drown or become fishbait. Jack was grateful for neither of these unfavorable outcomes.

In the waning light of the bobbing lanterns, Jack saw the slivered bits of metal that had been nailed to the side to serve as a crude ladder for men to scour the ship when she was beached. Grinning, he lay a loving hand across the dark wood, and whispered, "Hello, love. I missed ye, too."

The Pearl dipped downward, allowing his hand to grip the lowest rung and hoist himself out of the water. "Thank ye, dear. Ye've always been kind." The Pearl rocked softly as if in answer, a low creak burbling from her depts. Silently, Jack scurried up the side, his grin growing more smug as he finally came to the edge of the starboard side, and then merrily skipped over.

He landed in cat-like silence, warily watching for signs of anything being amiss. Uneasily, he scowled when he heard the footsteps. Jack crouched down behind the mast in the shadows when he heard Gibbs muttering irately, and tipping his bottle to the sky. Jack waited until Gibbs was tottering past, before he smoothly glided out.

"Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, Mr. Gibbs, about all the events that have transpired aboard my ship in the wake of my regrettable and involuntary absence, aye?"

Gibbs jerked sharply at the sound of the unexpected voice, and pivoted in disbelief. "Cap'n! Yore back!"

Jack allowed a small, satisfied smirk and a nod. "Aye, I'm back. And hopefully, I won't have to leave here for a while. Truly, I find the accommodations aboard the Pearl to be much more enticing than the brigs of either the Dutchman or the poncy frills of the East India Trade Company."

Gibb's brow furrowed at that. "Ye were aboard a _Company _ship, Jack? Why?"

Jack shuddered at the unpleasant memories, and lightly dismissed them. "It has no revelance or bearing on where I am now, Mr. Gibbs. Suffice it to say that I've had me fill of both naval ships, and any other ship other than my Pearl. Now, Mr. Gibbs, did anything newsworthy transpire in my absence?"

Gibbs hesitated, then ventured to answer, "In a manner of speakin', ye could say that."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Aye? And what events have transpired, then, Mr. Gibbs?"

Gibbs gave Jack an eerie smile, as he jabbed the bottle in the general direction of the cabin. "I think it best, Cap'n, that ye see for yoreself what events have passed in the few days you were gone."

Jack eyed Gibbs, and finally strode towards the cabin, muttering under his breath something about herrings and too much rum.

The cabin was dully lit by the flicker of candles in the sconces, as Jack finally strode through the door, eagerly anticipating a change into drier clothes and a few hours of sleep before the looming day to follow. Yawning, he lowered himself to the hammock, hunching over the wooden chest and then perching over it to take his soggy boots off. He grimaced at the amount of sea muck that spilled from the overturned boots, and left them on their sides to dry. He was not in the mood to decipher what ever strange hints that Gibbs was suggesting about the events that had transpired. He finally curled into the hammock, relishing the sway in time with the waves, allowing them to sooth him to sleep.

"Ye still be daft, Jack, to not check before ye get some slumber. I'd think ye'd know better by now."  
The words were warm and tolerant as Jack suddenly bolted upright at the sound of the voice. Wide-eyed, and disbelieving, he stared at her, the name flying from his gaping mouth.

"Anamaria!"


	39. Questions

Stunned by her appearance, Jack bolted upright in surprise, forgetting he was in the hammock. Anamaria snorted as Jack promptly flipped over in the cloth and was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. He landed with a sharp grunt, and squinted up at her, warily. Clearly ruffled from his undignified sprawl on the floor, he lay his palms flat behind his back, and carefully heaved himself upright. He heard her sharp hiss of breath when the moonlight swathed over him, revealing the curse as his naked bones flickered into view and then merged back to the dark.

"Bloody hell, Jack….what have ye done?!" Anamaria choked out, as she tilted her head in horror. Jack scowled in confusion, as he dubiously glanced down at his body. When the shadows shifted again to reveal the cloying bits of flesh clinging to his skeletal hand, he pursed his decaying lips.

"I think ye know perfectly well what I've done, love. You were there to see my bones in the moonlight. Perhaps the more relevant line of inquiry that should be pursued is what you were doing aboard Beckett's ship."

The words were clipped and cold as Jack narrowed his eyes and casually closed the distance between them. Anamaria collided with the unyielding wood behind her. Jack felt the stunning pain of the blow, and then heard the resounding crack as she suddenly belted him flush in the mouth, nearly spitting with rage.

"Ye bloody, stupid, daft pirate!!! I ought to gut ye here and now for thinkin' that I'd betray ye to the likes of Beckett!!!"

Jack cupped a hand to his bloodied lip, wincing in pain, the stars from the strike still glittering in his skull. He shook his head to clear away some of the numbing ache. Anamaria could belt out the best of them, certainly. He caught her flying hand mid blow, and crushed it gently between his own fingers, careful to restrain, but not to wound.

Anamaria snarled again, and plunged her whole body backwards in the attempt to free herself. Jack abruptly dropped his grip as though burned, and pivoted, his searing eyes narrowing in silent demand for an answer.

"Ne're did the word betrayal cross my lips, darling, and you are hardly the first woman to offer the suggestion of gutting me. " Jack said quietly, the bitter smile quirking on his lips as he shook his head. The motion was distancing, distracting and just what he needed to gather his scattered thoughts into some sort of understanding of the situation. Her eyes darted to his, as she bowed her head and ran a shaking fist through the dark tendrils that had snaked out of her headscarf. She was quivering, and frantically searching for a way out like a cornered animal. Jack scowled in concern, tilting his head.

"Truly there's something that is troubling you, love. You've never been one to hold that hell-fire's tongue out of courtesy or a loss of words. What is it?"

Anamaria spasmed, and then went brittle as she raised her burning eyes to face Jack levelly. He flinched when she suddenly gripped his arm, and hauled him forward until they were mere inches apart.

"Ana, darling, I always knew you'd miss my charm and wicked ways, but surely now is not the time to give in to your more….unladylike instincts?" Jack waggled his eyebrows suggestively, only to have the coy smirk brutally slapped off his face.

"Oi! That hurt!" He winced as Anamaria hissed out, "What did ye do to Norrington? Where is he?"

Jack's eyes bulged at the unexpected question. "Darling, I swear upon my honor that I've done nothing to harm a single hair of that ponce's prissy little wig. Indeed, I've not laid eyes on him since his ship's most fortunate sinking."

Anamaria rounded on him in seething silence, jabbing her finger between them with brutal promise. "Yore daft men either slit 'is throat and dumped him overboard, or left him to die in the brig."

Two thoughts were now warring for equal attention. Anamaria watched the dismay flicker across Jack's face, as he shut his eyes and breathed a long, deep, restraining sigh.

"By 'brig', you seem to be implying that bloody Norrington not only survived that hurricane, but his unwanted, indeed, much loathed presence is now sullying my ship's bilge water. Love, I do hope that it's not too much of an inconvience in asking for an explanation as to how this sordid turn of events came to be?"

Her voice was shrill as she rounded on him like an enraged cat. "Jack Sparrow, ye either get Norrington here, or I'll see how many ways I can gut ye and turn ye into a eunuch!! Get 'im here, ye daft fool!"

Indeed, her bellowing was not enough to wake the dead, but it was enough to rouse Gibb's concern. The old man cautiously opened the cabin door a crack to see what was going on, and shoved a fist over his mouth to contain the burbling laughter. Anamaria had Jack Sparrow backed into a corner and raising his placating hands in surrender merely by the power of her acidic tongue, and repeated jabs to his torso with her jutting finger.

The pirate was clearly trapped as Anamaria continued the verbal evisceration session, as Jack sent Gibbs a silent, panicked plea. Chuckling, Gibbs wryly turned to Anamaria with a bright smile.

"It's good to have ye back, lass. Now, what seems to be troublin' you?" Jack took the opportunity to scuttle to escape. He siddled out of the room before Anamaria had the chance to flay him any more than she already had. At seeing Gibb's bitter look, he apologetically tipped his hat, and whispered, "As you can clearly see, this is truly a shining example of that hell hath no fury like the aforementioned woman scorned. Is Norrington aboard the Pearl?"

Gibbs grunted uneasily. "Aye, Cap'n. He's down in the brig." Seeing Anamaria's snarl, he hastily added for her benefit, "Ye can quit slappin' the Cap'n, lass. We've done nothing to him. You know it's cap'n's orders not to torture the prisoners."

Anamaria just hissed out, "Then bring him here." Gibbs looked at Jack for direction, who only rolled his eyes heavenward before answering. "Aye, bring the ponce here to further sully my Pearl with his detestable presence. Perhaps we should make him feel more welcome with a grand tea party and crumpets while we're at it. Would that make you happy, darling?" He asked Anamaria sourly.


	40. Chapter 40

Norrington did not know which was harder to bear down in the Pearl's dark depths, the stench of the bilge water, the cloying wet, or the lack of light in his cramped, drenched little cell. Aside from the dripping dark, the unyielding irons shackled to his wrists, the Pearl of the crew had left him alone. Apparently, they were under orders to not torture or kill, because the crew did neither. Wearily, Norrington settled himself on the sliver of dry wood, a board nailed into the ship's side as a crude bench. It was "daft" indeed to expect mercy now. He was aboard the very ship he had tried to blast into oblivion only a few weeks before. Sighing, the memories throbbed through his aching skull, of when he held rank and life and crew.

Anamaria and Norrington had been adrift in the black, aimless and torpid, Anamaria angrily glaring at the fathomless sky as if demanding the stars appear for some light.

The gloaming light, weak from the waning moon, had shifted to deeper ebony for a brief moment. Norrington warily rose to his feet, and scowled when he saw the tell-tale white crests of minute waves. It was the wake of a ship, though he could not see where the ship had gone. It was as if it were pure delusion, or the ship had vanished. Norrington squinted at the water, perplexed and clearly ill at ease. Anamaria suddenly leapt to her feet, her face twisting in anguished joy as she breathed out the words.

"It's the Pearl."

She heard Norrington's sharp hiss of realization, the disbelieving shake of his head, and then the spasm of his entire frame going rigid with some emotion she could not name. Norrington continued his silent scrutiny as the Pearl slowly glided into view, the wet wood glittering obsidian against the peaceful lapping of the ocean waves.

Norrington flinched at the enormous sound of a pistol shot and the tang of spent powder wafting in the air. Anamaria stuffed the pistol back into her belt with a wicked Pearl's deck was suddenly flooded with the bellowing shouts and scuttles and lantern lights of the crew. Gibb's grizzled head popped up along with the brandished weapons of the men behind him. Grumbling, Gibbs waved them down, as he craned his neck to peer at the people in the boat.

He cupped a hand to his lips and shouted over the water, "Who goes there? Speak up or we'll blast ye!"

There was the sudden splash as the warning shot flew over Anamaria's head. Norrington suddenly engulfed her, actually lifting her off her feet and dumping her gently back to the stern. He gestured sharply for her to stay down as he cocked his own pistol and stepped in front of her to shield her from another shot.

She hissed like a wet cat and scrambled to her feet, shooting him a sour look as her own hell-fire voice rang out loud over the water. "If ye fire another shot at me, Gibbs, I'll come aboard sharp and gut ye! Ye know bloody well who I am, ye daft old fool!!"

There was a dubious silence as Gibbs cautiously rose to peer down at the water. The crew eyed each other uncertainly as Gibb's shoulders hitched in disbelief. "Anamaria? Is that you, lass?"

"Aye!"

Even in the dark, Anamaria could see Gibb's grinning as he roared out the order for a rope to be dropped into the small boat. Anamaria watched the rope uncoil, serpentine and welcome, the beaming face of Gibbs as gestured for her to board.

"Oy, Anamaria! Who be that with ye in the boat?"

Norrington stiffened, as Anamaria gave him a troubled, uncertain glance. He turned to her, eyes searing and expectant as she sighed and bit her lip.

Norrington rose to his full height and answered, his clipped, chilled diction perfect and regal despite his filthy appearance.

"Mr. Gibbs, this is Commodore Norrington. I know that I am familiar to you all."

There was only an astonished silence as Gibbs cocked an eyebrow and peeked at the boat. That rigid, precise posture was unmistakable. Anamaria shot Norrington a look of venom as she jerked her thumb behind her shoulder sharply.

"Why'd ye do that?! I wasn't going to let 'em shoot ye."

Norrington's eyes narrowed at that, as he shook his head. "Since when has the word of a dissolute pirate held any weight in fulfilling a promise?"

With that icy dismissal, he strode away from her, seeking distance and clarity while he wondered if they would allow him to live.

Anamaria hissed in annoyance as she gripped the rope. Turning up to Gibbs, she bellowed, "Aye, ye sea-scabs, it's the Commodore. He's here because he saved my life, and I'll put a bullet in yore thick 'eads if ye get any fancy notions of shootin' him. Either he boards with me or I stay in this boat."

Gibbs was already grumbling in annoyance as he ordered the crew to keep their weapons drawn. "Bring the ponce aboard if it suits yore fancy, lass, but he goes straight to the brig until Jack is back to give orders on what's to be done."

Anamaria saw Norrington's rigid face unrevealing and nearly cast in stone. He was silent as he raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for a decision to be made about his fate. Anamaria shouted back, "And you'll do no harm to 'im, you or the crew."

Gibbs tilted his head with a huff. "Now, lass, ye be askin' too much."

Anamaria's chin jutted as she put a defiant hand on her hip. "Do ye care to explain to Jack why ye left me adrift in these waters, Gibbs?"

After a bit more bickering, Anamaria had scurried up the rope. Norrington stared down at the little dingy, the endless water behind him, and the dubious salvation of the Pearl as she continued her rolling lurch over the waves. Anamaria peered down at him, and then jabbed a thumb towards the deck.

"Do ye plan on drowning, commodore? They've already raised anchor."

Sighing, Norrington rose, gripped the rope, and slid up the side of the deck. He nearly lost his grip when the ship suddenly swelled under a breaking wave, and pain rippled through his body. For one panicked moment, he was swung wide and slammed against the side of the ship. Stunned, his fingers went slack, and he nearly let go. He heard Gibb's cry of alarm, as several hands suddenly gripped him, propelled him upward, and dumped him on the deck.

Gibbs glared at him as he rose to face the long line of brandished pistols and sneers. Anamaria raised a threatening eyebrow to Gibbs, who shrugged, and waved a hand.

"Aye, to the brig with 'im. The cap'n can decide what's to be done with him, then."

Norrington could tell from the slant of light gloaming on the horizon that morning was coming fast. He probably had fallen asleep, but from the stupor of exhaustion and hunger, his senses were dulled and he felt weak.

He heard the sharp clang of the wooden door, the flicker of lantern, and Gibb's grizzled face scowling up at him through the bars, flanked by two other crew men that Norrington had not seen before.

"Cap'n wants ye." Gibbs announced indifferently, as Norrington merely nodded, and rose. There was only the clank of the rusted lock squeaking in protest and then the cell door was opened. Norrington felt Gibbs grip his arm, and escort him up the rickety steps, out onto the deck.

Gibbs gave him a smirk as he suddenly opened the doors to the Captain's cabin, and grandly gestured him through. "Enjoy yore chat, Commodore. I'm sure ye and the Cap'n have loads to jaw at."

The cabin doors were slammed shut with the finality of a tomb. Norrington drew a shaking breath, forced himself forward.

Sparrow was casually lounging, his bootheels languidly resting on the battered table, his body draped over the chair,completely at ease. Anamaria was standing with the usual silent snarl twisting her lips. She narrowed her eyes at Norrington, and then jerked her head in the direction of Sparrow. Sparrow's many gold teeth glittered as he brightly greeted Norrington with a grand sweeping arch of his arm.

"Commodore Norrington. And to what do I owe this unpleasant dishonor to have your much unwanted presence gracing my ship?"

Norrington was silent, as he met Jack's eyes with rancor. "I do not expect mercy, Sparrow, but I would know if I am to live or die."

Jack tilted his head at that, glanced at Anamaria, and shifted out of that deceptive ease. He squinted at Norrington, and lay the bottle down, deliberately.

"Seeing as you tried to blast my Pearl, have me executed, and then struck an accord with the nefarious and quite nasty Beckett, I'm glad that we are in mutual agreement of you not expecting mercy, as you've done nothing to suggest you are worthy of it."

Jack's words were brittle and iced as he went from relaxed to rigid in a few moments. Laying his palms down on the table, he forced a smile to Anamaria. "Perhaps ye wish to sit down for a chat, darling, so that you and your….comrade here," he spat as he gestured towards Norrington, "can provide an account as to what the bloody hell you were doing aboard Beckett's ship."


	41. Violation

There was only a long, troubled silence after Jack's snarled demand, as Norrington only maintained his icy refusal to divulge any answers. Jack scowled in annoyance as Anamaria glowered at him, put a hand on her hip, and strode the short distance. She halted only when she was standing over him, inches apart, her eyes burning, and her lip curled, venom already to spew.

"I owe ye nothin', Jack, leastways an explanation." Anamaria spat.

Jack stiffened, his eyes narrowing, as he carefully set his boot heels back on the floor. "You leave my Pearl, you leave my crew, with nary a word, or even the most rudimentary form of courtesy to let me know that you were alive, and now I find you in the company of the ponce who wishes to sink my ship. Ana, darling, the least thing that ye owe me is a reason behind this seeming treachery."

The hatred was brittle as Anamaria's laugh broke forth like a choke. "Ye be even more daft and thick if ye dare speak to *me* of betrayal. I left the Pearl of my own accord, and you never spoke against it. And you know that if I wanted ta gut ye, I would have by now."

Jack wrinkled his nose at that retort, his eyes suddenly widening, as he swayed with a finger rising between them. "How in the bloody hell could I be expected to say a word against your leaving when you left far too abruptly to give me even that dubious courtesy? You know my articles, Ana. I hold neither a man-nor a woman-to the service of the Pearl unless they truly wish to serve. But, surely you can see my rather well-reasoned reasons for considering you a betrayer when you serve that bloody sea-scab Beckett. What sort of inducement did he offer you, eh? What sort of riches did he have to hold sway over ye?"

Jack knew that he had spoken far too much when he saw her fists clench, sliding shut and knotting until she drew them up to her chin. She was quivering, her face suddenly ravaged with some spasm of anguish, before she met his eyes. Jack swallowed hard at the realization that they were ablaze with tears.

"My daughter. Beckett holds my daughter." The words were hissed out and choked off as Anamaria helplessly clutched the chair as she slowly sank into it. Norrington exhaled loudly, unseen behind Jack, and Jack's jaw and eyes opened wide, stunned.

Giving Norrington a furtive glance, Jack shook his head rigorously and whispered behind his hastily raised palm, "The whelp ain't mine, Commodore. Despite my decidedly lecherous appetites, it's not wise to mix business and pleasure, especially with the folks I trust to keep my Pearl."

Norrington gave him a seething glare as he impatiently gestured towards Anamaria, who looked as if she were holding back an ocean of tears. "That is not the issue at hand, Sparrow. Pay attention, she is weeping!" He hissed sharply.

Shuddering, Ana shut her eyes. "It was at Tortuga. Ye gave the crew shore leave, so I took off with the rest o' 'em to enjoy a bit o' land before the long voyage ahead. Ye know me, Jack, I never did favor the drinkin' much. Ye know that the women in Tortuga are good for keepin' a bed warm at night for a bit o' shine. The wenches get their wages….the unwillin' are dragged into the dark and forced."

"I was walkin' the backways towards the port where we docked. There was nary a soul around, and nuthin' to fear, or so I thought..But then, I heard this noise behind me, and the next thing I knew, he had my throat in 'is fist, and I couldn't breathe even enough to scream…"

The smile that twisted her lips looked like a knife's edge as she shook her head and shrugged. "He dragged me down to the mud, and slapped me face, held a knife to my throat, and laughed. I never saw the bastard before, or since. The noise from the singin' and the drinkin' were loud enough to hide my scream…or there wasn't anybody around to 'ear, or stop 'im. I kicked 'im, and almost broke free, twasn't enough to stop 'im."

Anamaria snarled at the memory, as her hand strayed instinctively to the pistol in her belt. "He was drunk, stumblin' around like a colt, and laughin' as he looked down on me and thanked me for sparin' him the price of spendin' his shine when he had just gotten what he needed for free, and 'e promised he'd return for me when it suited 'im."

She raised her searing eyes to Jack, as she caressed the pistol, not even knowing that her hands were gliding over its reassuring metal. "I guess he was used to women jus' cryin' and begging to be left untouched. He jus' wiped away my blood, as easy as if he were scrapin' mud from 'is shoes. I guess 'e didn't think any more of it…there's no need, now. I waited until he had gone far enough away, and I shot 'im when I could finally reach me pistol. He fell and died in the street, and I left him to bleed out what'er soul that bastard had left. The funny thing was, all the noise from the merry-makin' was too loud for anybody to hear his screams, either."

Jack drew in a shuddering breath, looking as if Anamaria had planted the bullet into his own chest.

"Oh, Ana, love….I never knew!" Jack sighed, as he shook his head.

Anamaria was silent.

Norrington flushed with shame. He had thought her distain for all others stemmed from mindless rancor and being hardened by the dictates of her trade. He had no idea it had come from the cruelest violation that any woman could endure. No wonder she almost shot him when he threatened her. It was disgusting to even contemplate.

"It was two months to almost the day that I found out that I was carryin' his child…and being pirate and bearin' young ones can't be done. I left at the next safe port before I started showin', and before any could ask me questions."


	42. Isobel

Jack and Norrington looked at each other uncertainly. Norrington felt embarrassed at his invasive presence at the telling of such a private hell that Anamaria endured. Jack's casual mirth was gone, replaced by the strange, pensive silence. Annamaria's face hardened as she curled a helpless fist, clenching her fingers together as if to attempt wrenching bones from flesh.

_The months that followed the violation was a vicious, cloying chokehold of hope with each butterfly kick against her belly, and sickening awareness of their peril. The child inside seemed heedless of its origins. Annamaria felt the first kick with a thrill of fear, and anguish as she protectively draped a hand over her swollen middle. She wasn't far along enough for her condition to be noted, but Annamaria knew that it was only a matter of time. Tortuga offered a refuge from prying eyes and wagging tongues-with such a seething mass of drunken unions from sea-rats and wenches, a pregnant woman alone was hardly note-worthy. Annamaria had clawed out ascant existence with her wages from the Pearl. She had fled the ports and the shores for the relatively safer and more isolated settlement deeper inland. Here, the population was a bit more rooted and law-abiding. Normally, she would have scorned the 'land-lubbers,' but at least here, she could bear her whelp. She rented out a hovel from a half-blind old hag, with hands like oak roots, and a thatch of silver hair. The old woman merely took her coin with no questions, only clucked disapprovingly as she looked down at Annamaria's ever growing belly._

"_And what did ye do, lassie, to get yourself in the family way without a husband?"_

_Annamaria only met those milky eyes with a snarl. "If ye don't know how women get in the family way, ye be daft."_

_The old woman merely shook her head, and gave her a look of sympathy. "Tis' a hard thing, bearing a babe alone. Have ye any kin a' all, lass?"_

_Annamaria only shook her head, curtly. The old woman sighed, and gently pat Annamaria's rigid shoulder. "Stay here, then, and rest a bit. You'll do the babe no favors frettin' over what can't be changed."_

_The transition from pirate to expectant mother had been hellish. Annamaria spent most of her time in weary resignation, fretting, or disgust over the condition of her body. She had never felt more helpless, or weak in her life. She tottered, heaved with the morning sickness, found herself short of breath when she attempted to shuffle back into Tortuga for food. She had to forsake the rum, and found that even the smell of it sent her into dry heaves. The baby made its presence known through its frequent shifting, and kicking. Annamaria groused out loud more than once that she felt the kid was more of a colt than a child.'_

_The old woman-Sarah-had taken it upon herself to look after Annamaria, often exhorting her to sit and rest, her maternal soothings both irritating and comforting at the same time. Sarah often rambled about the joys of motherhood as she would stop by the small room, carrying yams, or bread, or soup. Annamaria tried more than once to pay for the food, but Sarah feined insult and refused all compensation for it. Annamaria was grateful for that, though she never felt comfortable enough to ask any of the many gnawing questions that seemed to plague her more and more as the child's arrival came closer. She had at first thought of the child as a parasite, an unwelcome interloper resulting from the most sordid thing she had ever endured. Her hands ghosted over her stomach when she felt the child move. Sighing, Annamaria cast her eyes to the ever-shifting tides and felt the hunger for the water raging against the obligation she now carried. Laying a protective hand over the unborn child, Annamaria only whispered, "You'll not suffer my fate. I'll give ye something better than this."_

_It was on a seething night of storms and torture that Annamaria gave birth. Annamaria held back the screams by biting into a cloth Sarah had folded and lay between her teeth. Grunting, heaving, and nearly snapping bones in the process, Annamaria finally bore the child. The hours of contractions, the convulsions of her body, and the torpor was blurred as Annamaria lay back in sweated exhaustion. The infant announced her presence by the squalling writhing as Sarah hastily swaddled the dark-haired bundle and lay it gently in Annamaria's flaccid arms._

_Through tears, Annamaria held her daughter, and with a brittle smile to Sarah, named her Isabel._

Jack tilted his head when he heard the child's name.

"Isabel? Why that and not something a bit more….feminine? Like Jacqueline, perhaps?"

Norrington gave Jack a dubious look, as Annamaria only glared at him. Jack was already inching away, placating hands raised high to shield himself from the slap.

"I'm not saying anything against the name, love. After all, if you birthed the child, then you've certainly earned the right to name her."

Norrington shook his head in disgust. Sighing, he attempted to direct the attention back to the situation at hand. "How did Beckett come to have your daughter?"

Annamaria bowed her head, her voice growing soft with rancor.

"Twas two months after I bore her. I left her wi' the old woman, seeing it was the safest thing for her. I sent whatever wages I earned for her keep. The old woman loved her like her own kin, and the sea's no place for a babe, especially a dark one. I'd be damned if e'er I left her to the fate of a wench or a slave. I jumped a few ships in passin', earning my keep and comin' back to Tortuga when I could. T'was during a sea-side battle, between Beckett and 'is men, claiming that Tortuga was now in the employ of the East India Trade Company. Beckett knew that trying to take over Tortuga would be like tryin' to rope a storm..it can't be done. He wasn't daft enough to set attack at Tortuga. He ordered all 'is fancy fleet to the other side o' the islands, where the more civilized folks had their roots. To look for runaway slaves, and recover stolen property, he told em. I came back to Tortuga to find that little hovel burned to the ground, Sarah buried, and my daughter gone. I caught the tale from a shakin' old man who saw it happen. He tole me about Beckett. There's no bloody way that he could not have know 'im."


	43. Old Wounds

Jack exhaled a long, steadying breath, clearly disjointed by the story, and equally perplexed at its implications. Norrington glanced at him warily, as Jack siddled up to Annamaria's side, and met her eyes. "Ana, are ye sure that he has your child?"

Annamaria nodded curtly. "Aye, Jack. As certain as water's wet. Beckett was never slow about showin' his face, or his boat for the Tradin' Company. He didn't snatch Isabel because she was mine. He got her because she was dark, and just 'appened to be there when he rounded up the rest of them."

Jack scowled at that. "And where's the lass now?"

Annamaria flinched. "I don't know." She shut her eyes, and clinched her fists together, almost as if in supplication before she finally dredged up enough strength to force out the rest of the sordid details.

"It didn't take long for Beckett to come back to the island for more of us. In the next raid, I let myself be caught with the rest o' the people and dragged aboard the ship in chains. I got my freedom and meetin' with Beckett when I told him that I sailed under you, Jack."

Jack stiffened at that, his jaw growing slack, and his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "So ye betrayed me after all?" He asked softly, the snarl laced with hurt.

Anamaria huffed in annoyance as she put a hand on her hip and stared him down. "Ye be daft, Jack, if you think me foolish enough to tell Beckett anything that would risk ye. I told 'im enough to show I wasn't a liar or a fool. If I gave him the bearin's o' where the Pearl made berth, you know he would have sent ye to the depths long ago. "

Jack cocked an eyebrow dubiously, as he non-chalantly stroked his chin and leaned back, perching his boot heels on the table. Annamaria was clever enough to concoct a yarn, and she was certainly able to blame her absence on the unexpected arrival of a child. But, Jack also knew that above all else, she loved the ocean, and its siren's call of open chance and ramshackle liberty. She would never willingly sacrifice that unless there was something as momentous as a daughter to take up land legs and scrape by like a bar-wench in Tortuga. And she was far too proud to risk her independence for one night with a man. Jack knew that from the number of slaps she had doled out.

From behind, Norrington softly asked, "Did you tell Beckett that he had your daughter?"

Annamaria shook her head, with a minute jerk, as she jutted her chin upward in defiance. "What good would that have done, Commodore? Ye believe that Beckett would suddenly get a touch o' mercy and give 'er back to me? Ye saw what he did to yore crew to keep ye doin' his biddin'. What do you think he would have done to her?"

There was only silence, until Norrington reluctantly admitted quietly, "I honestly don't know, but I dread to contemplate it."

Jack had enough rum and compassion to keep the dreadful possibilities unspoken. His hands strayed rather languidly over his cutlass, lingering there in longing to put it through Beckett's skull. He wondered with a bit of malicious glee if Beckett would soil those silken breeches or squeal if he did so.

Jack's sleeve inched down from his wrist, the marred flesh and the brand. Laying a palm over it, Jack remembered the agony and the stench of his flesh burning as Beckett looked on with primly restrained satisfaction.

"Clearly our lovely Lord Beckett has been a thorn in our collective side, aye?"

The question was abrupt as Norrington scowled. Eyes narrowing, he made no attempt to hide the stare at Jack's brand. His scowled deepened as a troubling thought had been confirmed. Jack darted an irritated glance at him. His posture was deceptively casual as he slid his wrist from the weight of those eyes. Norrington ignored his indignant squawk when he suddenly rose and abruptly snatched his wrist.

"Sparrow, how *did* you come about being branded?"

Jack snarled as he ripped his wrist away from the restraining grip, and cradled it against his side protectively.

"It's not as if you've not observed it before, Commodore. Remember our first woeful encounter in Port Royal? "

Norrington sighed, and shut his eyes. "Indeed. Doubtless you were engaged in some dissolute debauchery to be branded. I am very certain that your vile deeds have earned it."

Jack tilted his head, his eyes shifting from cheerfully bright to obsidian. "Commodore, if by 'vile deeds,' ye mean the typical pillage, plunger and drink my weasly black guts out, I've not got enough skin to accommodate the needed amount of brands for such crimes."

Norrington was puzzled by the evasive answer, and the uncharacteristic anger as Jack hastily laced up his leather piece over the scar to shield it from view.

"What did you do, Sparrow?"

Jack lay both palms on the table, looking as if he were going to gut something. Norrington stiffened, and Annamaria gave Jack an agonized glance. Jack shook his head at her silent question.

Jack forced himself to relax, to don that foppish, tolerant wit, to distract by charm and words and insults. Lounging again, he perched his chin in an open palm, and held up his marred wrist with a wide, smug grin.

"I earned my brand, dear Commodore, by doing an uncharacteristically charitable deed. Hard to believe, I know, that in addition to my charm and roguishly handsome mug, I've a heart of gold and saintly regard for my fellow man as well."

Norrington's eyebrows slowly inched higher and higher up his forehead. "Mr. Sparrow, law-abiding citizen do not earn brands for charitable deeds."

Jack's eyes hardened as he glared down at his marred hand. "Ahh, but I'm hardly law-abiding,now am I, Commodore?"

Jack grinned until his golden teeth were aching. "I don't suppose you find it plausible that I liberated a slave ship, allowed the cargo to run, and then refused to sail under any banner that indulged in that ilk of wickedness, would ye?"

Norrington narrowed his eyes skeptically. "No, Sparrow, I would not. If anything, you would be hacking out that heart of gold, setting sail towards the nearest brothel, and spending what little coin you obtained on women of questionable virtue, and exorbitant amounts of rum."

Jack winced with something that made Annamaria's heart ache as he pursed his lips and shook his head in warning.

"Leave it be, Anna." She looked stricken, but nodded, unseen by Norrington. Norrington could not understand the underlying sorrow as Jack carefully ran a finger over the brand, and answered bitingly.

"Really, mate. You hardly know me at all. Rather shameful, that."


	44. Formation

Aboard the Antigone, huddled together in their crouched cluster, the surviving crew of the Calliope were quietly conversing. The heat was sweltering, the stench of sweated flesh almost unbearable. Despite the pain of so many injuries, Norrington's crew still clung to their infuriating solidarity against Beckett's manipulations. Gillette's back itched from the crusted scabs of dried blood from the flogging. He ran his tongue over the indentions his teeth had made from where he had nearly bitten through the inside of his lips. Mercer's flogging was not an absently administered punishment meted out for correction. It had been a torture that felt like if Gillette would not speak, then he would scream. He did neither, not when the sullied remains of his brocaded jacket was shredded with the claws of Mercer's whip. Even when the whip was hot and slick with his own blood and Mercer was trembling from rage and exhaustion……Gillette kept his silence and numbly wondered as they finally cut him down from the stern, if the silence was one of death.

They had dragged his bleeding, limp body down back to the cell, and flung him into the trapped mass of Navy men. Mercer had sneered at them as he merely wiped the blood away from his whip and slicked it back with oil to keep the leather clean. Gillette slumped boneless to the floor, and was caught and held upright by a few of his comrades. They had soaked the last of their alcohol rations in a few of the cleaner rags to dap futilely over his bleeding back to stave off fever and infection. It was his stoic refusal to divulge anything to Beckett that forced Beckett to concede to Sparrow's odd suggestion that the men at least be given enough care to survive the long voyage. They had been moved out of the dank, bilge-drenched hull and into a dry cage. Their rations had been increased to prevent starvation, and aside from Mercer's sneers, they had little contact with the crew of the Antigone.

Gillette winced as he shifted his arm, warily craning his neck towards the cell door, to ensure that they were alone. The broken bones had healed enough that Gillette knew he would keep the arm. The Antigone was merciful in one sense-she always betrayed her crew by alerting the prisoners when somebody was coming. A loud creak of wood, a ripple of fear, and all of them went rigid in silent, seething vigilance. The conversation was halted, men hastily shifted away from each other.

After the long lull of tension, Gillette finally forced as much reassurance in his voice as he quietly announced, "Be at ease. We're alone."

Gillette grimaced at the dry taste in his mouth. Warily, he looked around at his fellow crew members, and seeing that he had their attention, he hesitantly spoke.

"Gentlemen, languishing here aboard the dissolute ship does nothing to secure our freedom. Nor am I content to allow Beckett the liberty of killing us off at his convience. As you well know, I have been interrogated by him on more than one unpleasant occasion. I can tell you that he has no intention of showing us mercy. The only reason why he tarries in killing us off is that we are the leverage that he needs to bring the Commodore to heel."

There was a murmur of whispers that rippled through them, uneasy glances back and forth. Groves inclined his head respectfully to Gillette as he spoke. "I know that you speak the truth, sir. But, what would you have us do? Have you a plan?"

Gillette nodded, grimly, but inwardly cringed. He was known for being deliberate, quiet, and an uncanny ability to observe what was often overlooked and then proved crucial for a future victory. He had no eloquence, or craving for rank. He only hoped that what he was offering was enough for them to accept. The men fell silent with respect, or maybe curiosity. Gillette did not know or care which one he had.

"Forgive me, please, if I seem deceitful, for I have not spoken of all that I know. I happened to notice as I was being escorted to Beckett's chambers, a flaw that might lead to our deliverance. The weapons' cache is stored in a wooden box a very short distance from our current lodging. I imagine that they did not trouble themselves to keep their weapons at bay because they usually house prisoners below deck. And, as it is on our own ships, weapons easily available for battle are a distinct advantage over those that are not."

There was a quiet murmur rippling through them, as Gillette patiently waited for silence again. Groves glance at the men behind him, scowled thoughtfully, and spoke for them all.

"With all due respect to you, sir, how does that help us? We cannot escape from this prison unless Beckett releases us. "

Gillette allowed a chilly, knowing smile as he turned to face Groves. "There are two crucial things that I have noted that may prove advantageous to us. For one thing, *Beckett* has not troubled himself to venture down here since we were moved. None of the other crew come down here to feed us, or even to torment us. The only one who sees to this is Mercer-a vile man, who I would personally relish overpowering and throwing head first into the ocean. We are not heavily guarded, gentlemen, nor are we out-numbered. If you consider the location of this holding cell, it is isolated, dark, and rather quiet. The noises of a struggle would not easily be heard. If any among you wishes to stay here to languish and be killed at Beckett's whim, then please consider this my invitation to do so. "

Gillette paused to let them consider what he had said. A few men looked perplexed, more looked troubled, and a few were nearly radiant with hope.

Groves cleared his throat, and tactfully spoke. "Gentlemen, we have been through too much and suffered too long together to buckle under the weight of fear, and uncertainty. I know that Mr. Gillette's plan is very much a gamble, but it at least offers us a chance of escape. I do not find waiting here to die an acceptable ending for any of us."

There was a ripple of agreement as Groves resumed speaking. "With your permission, Mr. Gillette, I would like to expound on your idea. Beckett knows well your refusal to divulge any information. Were he to be convinced that there were a few among us who had grown weary of our situation, Beckett would surely be interested in this. Were we to convince him that a few of us had loose lips, Beckett would eagerly allow one or two-no more- into his chambers to speak. Would this grant a chance for getting the cache and escaping?"


	45. An Unexpected Turn

Of all the hells any of them had to pick from, waiting seemed to be the most taxing on the nerves. After a bit more tense deliberation, it had been decided that Groves would be the turncoat. Groves uneasily palmed his forehead, grimaced at the sweat, and breathed in a long and steadying forced a smile, as he tilted his head, and braced himself against the bars of the cell.

"At ease, . All you have to do is tell Mercer you wish to speak to Beckett, and go above deck."

Groves swallowed, his dark eyes narrowing at the thought. "Sir, with all due respect, deception is not something I can do very convincingly. What if it fails?"

Gillette grimly pursed his lips, as he looked over his shoulder at the huddled men. From their small, protective crouch, a snarl answered, "Then we will kill as many as we can before we finally succumb in battle!"

There was a rumble of agreement that ran through them. Wryly, Gillette turned back to Groves. "I do believe you have your answer, then. Do what you can, Mr. Groves. That is all any of us can ask now."

Groves bit his lip, looking even more young and uncertain, as he nodded his head. "Yes, sir, I will."

The slant of light pooling over the floor, and then the languid pound of Mercer's boots against the planks warned them of his coming. Groves swallowed hard, and stepped away from the crowd. Warily, he watched as Mercer's scarred face emerged, and gave them all a sneer in perverse greeting. Halting a few feet from the cell, he eyed them with disdain.

"I overheard your little plot. I'm sure Lord Beckett would be be most displeased to hear of your plans after his generousity in letting ye keep your lives. It would be an easy thing, see, to just shoot ye all, but why waste the bullets, and the trouble? As you know yourselves, noone comes down here without 'is permission. Truly, nobody even knows that you're here. We don't even need to throw you overboard to drown. We can just lock the door, and forget ye. Now, dying from want of thirst and and hunger's not a pleasant way to die, but...it works."

Mercer's cruel, triumphant smirk and casual hoisting of his pistol set Grove's hastily contrived plan to motion. "Mr. Mercer, sir, you are finally here! Please remove this dissenter from us, or at least have the mercy to put him in a different cell, so we don't have to endure any more of his blather!" Groves minutely tilted his head towards Gillette. Gillette looked on, bewildered, as he heard the men cursing at him. Bellows of "Get this traitor away!" and "Remove this man!" rang out like thunder.

Gillette looked sickened, and shocked. Groves gave him a curt smile.

Mercer raised an eyebrow, puzzled, as Gillette was roughly shoved against the cell, the men separating from him as if he were an unclean thing. He gave them all a wilting look of betrayed anguish, but stayed stoic and silent.

"Mr. Mercer, we never chose Gillette to speak for any of us. He is a self-appointed fool, and we refuse to die because of his twisted sense of obligation to that traitor Norrington. Do us a favor, please, and remove him from us!"

Gillette shook his head, his voice dripping contempt, "How dare you accuse *me* of betrayal! It was for your worthless lives that I maintained my silence!" Turning to Mercer, he coldly announced, "Please be gracious enough to tell Lord Beckett that I have seen the light, and I am most willing to answer any questions he may have about Norrington. These vile former crew-men of mine are not worth my languishing here any more on their behalf!"

Mercer backed away, eyes narrowing, and pistol lowered warily. To have that honored solidarity sudden erupt into this chaos of shouts and accusations was unnerving. He did not understand it, but he did not like this sudden turn of events. He shot the pistol over their heads, to reign in some order. The shouting stopped instantly, all of them stood, slack-jawed, and shocked as the stench of smoke wafted through the dark. There was only the sound of tense breath, and Mercer's wicked cackle as he shook his head in a mirthless laugh.

"Maybe Lord Beckett will just give my orders to shoot you all. A pleasant thing, that."

Gillette hissed out, "Then do me the honor, sir, of selecting me to be the first. As I am now considered the scapegoat for which all blame lies, I prefer dying by your bullet than being left here at the mercy of these wretches. They seem intent on killing me!"

Mercer's forehead crinkled at that, as he retreated, shaking his head. "Lord Beckett will hear of any of you kill him, you'll all meet your ends as one loyal crew together."

With a last glare, he siddled back up the stairs. They were alone again.

Gillette slumped, shoulders heaving, gut churning, shoulder throbbing. The sudden betrayal, the mutiny of his comrads...it was too much to take in at once.

He heard Groves's apologetic sound from behind him, as he forced himself to face them. They were glancing at each other, dubiously, a few hung their heads in shame. Groves looked absolutely wretched as he hitched his shoulders, his head bowed under some unbearable weight.

"Forgive us, sir, if that was not the correct course of action. I honestly didn't know what to do when Mercer appeared so suddenly, and you said you wanted them to believe we were turning against each other...."

Gillette flinched in suprise. "Do you mean to tell me that you were not intending to hand me over to Beckett?"

The crew looked genuinely appalled at the thought, and Groves could not mask his shock.

"Of course not,sir! How could you even think such a thing? If Mercer dare set foot in this cell,he will not leave it alive."

Gillette raised his eyebrows, giving the upper decks a troubled look. "Well, then, gentlemen, that was a fine bit of acting. And, it may work to our advantage that we were overheard. We do not know how much Mercer overheard, but he seems to think that you are all actively plotting against me, now, in the open. Surely with such an unexpected turn, we can salvage something?"

Groves grimly nodded, silently contemplating.


	46. The Nature of the Beast

Idly, Bootstrap stared at the remaining mottled flesh on the back of his hand, and compared its color to the rotted wood of the Dutchman. His flesh was festering with the mold and the ever present decay of constant rot and water. It was a sickening thing to grapple with, decaying without death. Dying but never having absolution, no ending to mark an exit from this cursed existance. The Dutchman rocked upward on the tide, and plunged again. The creak of wood against water burbled from her depths and it sounded like a gurgle of choked triumph. Bootstrap sighed wearily as he turned his thoughts from his fate to the task before him..the watch. The water was an endless abyss of black, unbroken by tide, or moonlight. He shuddered. It reminded him too much of drowning.

He knew well the power of the curse, and its fickle was the liberation from the curse that had induced him to bargain his soul and bind himself to this wretched ship,now. The crushing oblivion of all the water, the sorrow, and the memories were tormenting, but not as horrific to bear as the agony of loss. When Bootstrap pondered what he did not know about his son,it made his very soul-what was left of it-ache. It was a macabre tether. Such pain still reminded him that not all of his humanity had been swallowed up by the tide.

His thoughts were interupted by the sudden bellowed order of the bosun. "All hands to the wheel, ye sea-scabs!"

The crew was hastened into obedience by the crack of the whip pelting down on their bent shoulders. Bootstrap groaned inwardly and shuffled with a snarl to his place by the gigantic pillary. The contraption was little more than a massive anvil, that hoisted the huge pillar high and then sent it clanging down into the Dutchman's lower decks with a sound like a massive bell. Bootstrap hated the rolling swell of noise, not only for the burden of hoisting the thing upwards. It meant that Jones was summoning his monsterous pet to the surface again. His body ached with forcing the wheel to turn. His back throbbed from the repeated whipcracks that kept showering him in a hellish rain. The Bosun barked out the order for the men to form a line, and they scrambled into obedience. Bootstrap curled a lip, but dipped his head.

The shadow fell over the dripping deck, and the silence was interrupted bythe gliding thump of Davy Jones as he began his slow stroll. The bulbous air sac swelled with a snarl, the tenticles writhed as he eyed them all with vicious scrutiny. Bootstrap shuddered when the hated thing before him halted inches from his face, and glowered down at him. Bootstrap hid the flinch, and kept his eyes lowered as Jones exhaled a loud, puncuated smoke ring from his pipe.

The prow was rocked with a dull thud, the water around the hull undulating with the flowing white appendages of the Kraken. Even on the moonless night, her pale, massive body gleamed the color of bone beneath the surface. She continued her ascent, silently billowing upward like a cloud, and expanding until her bulk seemed to swallow the ocean. Jones snorted in wry amusement as he peered over the deck, as if he were fondly looking at a beloved pet. His lipless mouth contorted, and water spewed from one of his breathing holes. The massive creature rolled over in the waves, her gold-rimmed iris marred by the pistol shot. Disbelief mingled with rage, and rage festered into darkening awareness, as Jones hissed at the violation to his creature. She had destroyed whole ships without suffering any damage. To have her blinded in that eye by something as ordinary as a pistol shot was unthinkable. The realization felt like a wound.

"The Kraken's been shot through the eye." It was whispered, as Jones turned from staring at the beast to his crew. The crew exchanged astonished glances, and a murmur of disbelief was abruptly hushed as Jones bellowed in rage, "Somebodah has shot her through the eye!"

There was a hideous silence as Jones glowered at them all, and abruptly screamed, "Bill Turnah!" Bootstrap flinched, but forced himself to answer, languidly.

"Cap'n?"

"Where is Sparrah?" Bootstrap nearly choked as he raised his eyes. "At the bottom of the ocean, Cap'n. I sent him to the depths after ye killed him, on yore orders." His voice was sullen and indifferent, nothing more than a witless deckhand following an order.

Jones narrowed his eyes, as Bootstrap plunged on, "Ye saw me carrying his body out, and ye saw me dump 'im overboard, Cap'n, like ye told me."

Jones suddenly snatched him upward in a crushing grip of strangling tenticles. Bootstrap felt the cloying things weave around his throat as he was hoisted into the air.

"Were ye certain Sparrah was dead?" It was a whispered hiss, as Bootstrap choked out, "Aye, Cap'n. I've heard no tales of a man survivin' a blade through his heart. Naught when it's from your hand."

It was a dangerous remark. Jones' eyes flickered to his claw, as his mouth tightened with some unnamed , Bootstrap added, "Ye killed 'im, Cap'n. There's no way that he could have survived a woundin' of that sort.I was just followin' yore orders."

Jones abruptly dumped him on the deck, and Bootstrap sucked in a long breath. He could feel the laceration of Jone's scrutiny on his neck, as he rose and shuffled back into line.

The Kraken was still bobbing on the surface, her bad eye glaring up at Jones as if in supplication for an answer. Jones heaved out a breath, before giving the curt order.

"Set course for Beckett's fleet. I'll see for meself who puts a bullet through a man's own."

The crew answered with a wicked smattering of cackles. Bootstrap said nothing as he joined the rest in docking the ropes and preparing to set did not know how much suspicion was deflected from Jack, but at the moment, the wrath of the Kraken against Beckett seemed a pleasing accord. 


	47. A Matter of Honor

The night air was laden with humidity, and Jack could feel the sweat cloying to his skin as it slid down from his scalp. Even the familiar cabin was suddenly confining and unbearable. Norrington was still eying his brand with suspicion. Annamaria had a hand curled beneath her chin, eyes glowering out at the ocean, as if she could glare it into submission. She flinched when she saw his gaze, full of a strange sadness.

Uneasily, he spoke, "Ana, darling, I truly did not know of your ordeal. It's truly a thing of sickening depravity that you've endured."

Her eyes slid to his, burning with tears, ravaged and wounded. "And what would ye know of bein' forced, Jack? How many wenches have lifted their skirts for a coin to ye?"

Jack's shoulders hitched, as he sighed, "That's akin to asking the King to name the number of coins in his kingdom…suffice it to say, there's ….a lot." He had the grace to look ashamed as Norrington only rolled his eyes heavenward, and Annamaria's scowl deepened.

"And did ye ever take a woman unwillin' , Jack? Did ye ever force yourself upon her, even when she was begging ye to stop?"

Jack's eyes went from warm brown to obsidian, as he suddenly gripped her shoulders, and dragged her close enough to feel her shudder beneath his hands. Annamaria nearly whimpered at the unwanted contact, her defiant rage blazing forth to hide the rising terror. Jack held her in that horrible, indecisive moment. He had the indignant words ready to heave out, and dying in his throat when he looked into her eyes and saw the violated fear.

Something seemed to crumble inside as he almost gently answered, "I've never taken that which wasn't freely offered, darling. With all those ladies that have graciously offered of themselves, I've never had a need to."

She spat back, "And would ye take, Jack?"

Jack stared at her for a long, vicious moment, before he shook his head in disgust. "No. Absolutely not." His voice was curt and dismissing as Norrington shook his head in disagreement.

Jack's glare felt like a blow as he suddenly pivoted to Norrington. "Do you recall a certain damsel in distress, who was once your betrothed, Commodore? If memory serves me, I believe we were both marooned on a nasty spit of land together for the night, aye?"

Norrington's eyes slid to his, as his jaw tightened at the mention of Elizabeth. Jack snarled, "It was a jolly good chance for me to take like the pirate I am….to ravage and plunder as I pleased, because I could. Tell me, Commodore…did darling Lizzy ever mention an unwilling tryst on my part?"

Norrington exhaled the choked breath at the agonizing question. He had spent that hellish night fearing for Elizabeth's survival. Any insult to her honor, especially in such a cruel way, was simply too sickening to ponder. It was a question he was too afraid to know the answer to.

When they had found Elizabeth Swann only wearing a shift stained with the sea-muck, the worst of his fears sprang forth with the viciousness of a tiger. It was only after Norrington had Elizabeth safely trussed away in his cabin that he learned the true nature of Jack Sparrow's conduct. Elizabeth had guardedly spoken of the few details she felt safe enough to divulge. Despite her vulnerability, and the opportunity, Jack Sparrow had left Elizabeth untouched. Norrington felt disgusted with himself when he found himself more relieved that Elizabeth could still be his, rather than concern over the possibility of her violation.

Jack narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. "Well, Commodore? Did she?"

Norrington shut his eyes, and drew a long breath. The words sounded as if he were biting them off.

"You know very well she did not, Sparrow. Why you chose not to take advantage of Elizabeth, I cannot guess."

Jack attempted a bright smirk as he swirled a hand over his mustache "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. There's no need for it, mate, what with my roguish charm and whatnot."

There was only the loud slam of wood against wood as Annamaria stormed out of the cabin, leaving the two men staring after her.

She continued her blind, relentless dash until she had come to the tack lines. Pausing only to hook a foot into the rope, she climbed the swinging rigging up to the crow's nest. She glowered at Gibbs, who was taking the night watch.

The old man frowned uneasily. Vexed women always made him a bit skittish, and Annamaria was clearly unsettled about something.

"There's room for us both up here, Mr. Gibbs, but if yore that bothered by me being here, I'll take the watch."

Gibbs shrugged, and raised his meaty hands, placating. "You know ye can stay here if it suits yore fancy, lass. I've nary been one to tell another crew where they can go or not. Besides, it looks something be vexin' ye." He raised his eyebrows, knowingly.

"And from the way ye left Jack's cabin, that something be quite vexing."

Annamaria pursed her lips , warningly. "Mr. Gibbs, it's none of yore affair. I prefer to keep what vexes me my own."

Gibbs sighed and shook his head. "Aye, lass, true enough. But I doubt you'll be keeping the vexing to yourself for long, if it's that troubling."

Annamaria narrowed her eyes at Gibbs. Aye, the old bulldog, with his mutton chops, and silly fancy about women aboard being bad luck, and whatnot. Annamaria maintained her glaring silence, and Gibbs said nothing more with a resigned shrug. He shifted his position to allow her room.

"'S a good night to take watch. The water's clear as glass."

Annamaria nodded. "Aye." And the two fell in companionable silence. From her lofty perch, Annamaria saw the endless swell of starlit deeps, unfurled over the equally still waters. Aside from the quiet lurch of tide, the Pearl was motionless, her dark wood taking on the shades of the obsidian night around her. The sky was cloudless, and nearly bloated to the full from the weight of the stars.

Gibbs nodded appreciatively to the beauty around them. Annamaria let the ocean breeze gather the strands of her hair and fling them, as she breathed in the scent of water, and freedom. Despite the agony of loss, the water was the only thing that came close to soothing the ache. To her, the water was home.

Norrington continued to maintain his calculating glower and longed once again for his sword. Jack had lurched in surprise at Annamaria's frenzied bolt, and was still in that rigid stance of half rising, his palm flung in the direction of her departure. Jack sighed wearily, and settled back into his chair, with a troubled glance to the door, and a long swig of rum.

Suddenly he slammed the bottle down on the table, and rocked to his feet in one fluid motion. Norrington warily inched away when the pirate only exhaled and stared down at him, seething.

"I think it best we get one thing clear, mate, while I've me wits about me, and enough generosity to not put my blade to better use than unused deterrent in the prevention of unpleasantries such as this."

Norrington was weaponless, but unyielding as he slowly rose from his seat, and raised his chin as if in offering for the sword.

"Killing an unarmed man is dishonorable, but I should expect no less."

Jack raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head. "Aye, it is dishonorable to kill an unarmed man. It's also dishonorable to assume that I'd dishonor myself by honoring your judgmental assumption that I kill dishonorably. Believe me, Commodore, you've given me plenty of reason to kill you, but since when does a pirate trouble himself about honor?"

Norrington sighed. "And I suppose you have nothing but honorable intentions in prolonging my life?"

Jack only gave Norrington an infuriating smirk. "Oh, I've my reasons for prolonging your life, Commodore, but they're not from a sense of honor."

"


	48. Aboard Two Ships

Beckett was awoken with the curt knock, and the placating bark of Mercer. Beckett clutched his throbbing forehead,and scowled at the sweltering heat. The ocean was humid, and the air itself seemed to cling to the fine silken sheets that he carefully lay aside. He curtly ordered Mercer to return to his post, and would attend to what needed attending at a latter hour. He heard Mercer's submissive answer, and then that odd shuffling as his loyal servant left to obey the edict.

Sighing, Beckett rose from his bed, and hastily rose to dress. The heat was overwhelming, but it did not stop Beckett from donning his fine waistcoat, and tying the pristine white scarf around his neck. He pulled on his boots over his breeches, and paused to adjust the wig. Eying himself carefully, he worked up the bored and detached serenity, as he finally rose to face the day.

The crew bowed and hastily scuttled away, in the attempt to avoid provoking him. Only Mercer had the courage to bob his head in acknowledgement and snarl out, "There's trouble brewin', sir."

Beckett arched an eyebrow in mild curiosity. "And what might be the cause of such trouble, Mr. Mercer?"

Mercer did not have the time to answer. The Antigone suddenly plunged downward, and tilted wildly. Beckett scowled as he tottered awkwardly to avoid falling. Gripping the railing, he did a masterful job of hiding his fear, as he pivoted to face the water. The ship shuddered as if struck, the mast trembled. All around the water's edge, waves writhed, and churned, as something huge churned unseen in the depths.

Mercer paled, and gave Beckett a panicked glance for direction. Beckett bit his lip, and exhaled sharply. There was the sudden, shrill rippling of a dying scream, as a huge, alabaster tentacle flailed out of the water, snatched the nearest crew member, and hoisted him high. He vanished under the water before any could even cry out.

The Dutchman rose like a sword being unsheaved out of the water, her unholy crew bellowing threats, as the stench of rotten wood and sea muck swept to Beckett's nostrils. He curled them in aversion, as Jones shifted into existence on the Antigone's deck.

Mercer swallowed hard, the audible gulp sliding down his closing throat as Beckett gave him a disgusted glance, and calmly stepped forward.

"Captain Jones. It is rather odd for you to visit the Antigone without being invited." Beckett's eyes narrowed as Jone's whiplike appendages flared in rage.

"Someboda shot the Kraken clear through the eye. I'll not allow that ta go unpunished!" Jones slammed his claw into the rigging, and one man yelped at the sudden noise.

Beckett sighed, and shut his eyes for a long moment. With that infuriating patience, he calmly ventured, "Captain Jones, it would be a waste of bullets to simply wound your pet. If I had that sort of intention, I would kill it."

Beckett allowed the words to fester into an unspoken threat as he stared down the monster. Jones flinched, knowing very well that he had overstepped the delicate bounds of power that Beckett enforced so ruthlessly.

Mercer did not bother to hide that ugly, triumphant smirk as Beckett sighed with no impatience. He pivoted towards Jones, the elegant glide having no misstep as he began to pace the deck of the Antigone like a panther.

"I do hope you realize, Captain Jones, that the existence of your pet, and indeed, your freedom, are only granted as long as you serve a purpose. I think you would find the loss of that beast to be an insufferable blow."

Jones lurched forward, and hissed, water spluttering from the bulbous sac in rage, "You'll not lay a hand on 'er!"

Mercer suddenly sprung forth, ready to defend his master, as Beckett only narrowed his eyes and walked the few steps between them. They were nearly flush, and Beckett did not trouble himself to hide the disdainful grimace as a drop of water slid over his shoulder.

Mercer shuddered. Jones towered over Beckett, his shadow engulfing the Antigone, his monstrous crew leering over the deck, the soldiers cringing as they waited for the horrible outcome.

Beckett only smiled, a curl of lips deceptively benign. Raising his eyes, he quietly answered, "Need I remind you that I have the means to send you to the depths, Captain Jones? The injury to your pet is regrettable, but I think it a small and passing thing compared to what I could do to you."

The words were chilled, and Beckett watched as Jones's eyes darted backwards. Some of that erratic defiance crumbled as Jones stiffened. Beckett was eying him coldly, clearly miffed and very much unafraid.

"If it weren't your crew, then who did this?" Jones spluttered as Beckett raised an eyebrow. Beckett pursed his lips, and tucked his hands behind the small of his back. He turned to gaze out at the churning sea, with a frown.

"If the beast was shot through the eye, as you say,Captain Jones, the shooter would have to pocess a high caliber of marksmanship. Since we are on the open ocean, and have not spotted a ship in several days, that would either mean your beast had her unpleasant encounter far away from here, or there's somebody in these waters who may pose a threat. The question, is who."

Beckett narrowed his eyes to peer at the evasive glance at Jones. "Captain Jones, you know these waters. Have you had any encounters with other ships?"

"No." The word was spat as Jones withdrew, stepping away and attempting to look less like a cowering dog. Beckett gave him a tolerant smirk before he grimly rose, satisfied that the balance of place and power had been restored again.

"Captain Jones, that shot was not fired by any of the men aboard here. We have not had any encounters with your pet. Logically, the monster was either shot by a member of your own crew, or there is some skilled marksman adrift in the waters. Clearly you haven't had an opportunity to add any recently deceased to your ranks, have you?"

Jones glowered at him. "I killed Jack Sparrah, naught but two days ago." Jones watched as Beckett suddenly lurched.

There was a slow, measured breath to cover the shock as Beckett turned to face him. "You killed Jack Sparrow?"

Jones grimly nodded with satisfaction. "I ran my blade through his gut and dumped is hated corpse overboard. I'll naught have that foul thing on the Dutchman."

Beckett raised an eyebrow.

And meanwhile, aboard the Pearl:

"What purpose do you have in keeping me alive, Sparrow? " Norrington narrowed his eyes. Jack felt a reluctant admiration for his restraint in not flinching away from the blade, even as it dug a bit into his flesh and started to bleed.

"'S a matter of leverage, mate. What better way to ensure my survival, but to ensure the survival of a certain pompous, disgraced Commodore, eh? You don't think the dear and proper folks of Port Royal wouldn't be willing to aid their beloved protector's well-being by a generous contribution to the Pearl, do ye?"

Norrington's eyebrows arched downward sharply, as he scowled, perplexed. "You do not intend to kill me?"

Jack tilted his head, as he swayed non-chalantly. "Commodore, let's look at this logically, aye? You're aboard a pirate ship, crewed by a motley crew of blood-thirsty cutthroats who would happily eviscerate you. Do you think that you're still among the living because these pirates have nothing but fond memories and charitable notions towards you? Instead of dreading your pending demise, mayhaps you should focus on how fortunate your circumstances truly are!" Jack offered with a bright smirk.

Norrington's scowl deepened from puzzlement, to distain. "As you have pointed out, Sparrow, I am imprisoned by a band of miscreants who would happily kill me. Forgive me if I find your definition of mercy and mine to be considerably different."

"Captain…Captain Jack Sparrow, Commodore….why Is that so bloody hard to remember?" Jack muttered irritably, as he rocked back into a chair, hoisted his boots, and lay them directly on the table, inches from Norrington. Norrington sighed in disgust and folded his arms rigidly.

A bitter quirk lit Jack's lips as he casually drummed his nails against the table, each word measured and weighted before he flung them out.

"Would ye rather be at Beckett's mercy, Commodore?"

Norrington's head jerked sharply as if stabbed, inhaling a sudden breath, as realization broke over him.

"What do you know of Cutler Beckett, Sparrow?" The question was snarled as Norrington rose.

Jack smirked triumphantly. "He's got a bloated sense of propriety, a taste for too much brocade, and he's a pretentious git."

Norrington sighed, as he wearily attempted to pinch away the ache that was steadily throbbing behind his eyes.

"That is not uncommon knowledge, Sparrow. However, considering that the man branded you, I am almost delighted to find one redeemable quality about the man."

Jack casually unbuttoned the sleeve that concealed the brand, and allowed the white cloth to fall free of his wrist. The burn had long faded, only leaving the charred, raised scar. Jack ran a finger over the raised line of his flesh, like he had so many times before. It still felt like a violation.

"And considering the pleasant fact that he's left you without ship, crew, rank, or any foreseeable means to survive but to obey my orders, I've cause to thank Beckett, too . He's a rather likable chap once you get past the fact that he's a power obsessed ponce with no tastes for anything besides tea and blood. 's a good combination of endless compassion, and determination."


	49. The Sea Beastswd

Mercer studied his master's face. Normally, Beckett held a cold, detached serenity, unaffected, or unmoved by another's anguish. Any cause for emotion that was strong enough to ripple through the surface was cause for alarm. Mercer noted the sharp, minute dip of Beckett's lip as unease flickered over him. It had vanished just as soon as Mercer noted it, easily smoothed over into the placid face yet again. Mercer watched as Beckett suddenly locked eyes with his, narrowed, and shook his head in one dismissing jerk. Beckett rolled his eyes heavenward, though Mercer knew he did not seek answers from their depths. There was a long, indulgent sigh of long-suffering as Beckett finally tucked his wrists behind his back, raised his chin to eye them all primly, and begin his slow descent down the steps. There was the slow, steadying tap of his boot heels against the deck, one hand draped over the mahogany banister.

"Mr. Mercer, kindly see that these…_guests,-" _Beckett paused to disdainfully look them over, "are properly attended to. Captain Jones, if you would be so gracious as to join me." Beckett added insult to injury when he slightly arched his fingers upward in emphasis. It was the same gesture one might use in calling a dog.

Jones narrowed his eyes at the insult, but wisely said nothing. His crew exchanged dubious glances as their captain-the most feared monster in the ocean-was reduced to slinking up the steps in cowardly obedience, by a few words and a summoning of fingers.

"Lord Beckett, do you wish them to stay aboard?" Mercer's question brought a languid scowl.

"Mr. Mercer, these gentlemen are our guests, and Captain Jones's crew. Surely it would be a very poor show of manners if they were to leave without their captain."

"Aye, sir." Mercer ducked his head into a bow. Beckett suddenly paused, and gave Mercer a smug smile.

"On second thought, Mr. Mercer, perhaps it would do the crew of Captain Jones some good to visit our guests in the brig. I don't suppose that you would object if they kept the prisoners entertained?"

Beckett looked at Jones for permission, as the lipless mouth suddenly splintered into a grin of wicked understanding.

"This goes with the understanding that they are **not** permitted to kill any of them. However, Captain Jones, you are free to see if any of them would take up your offer of being a crew member on the Dutchman. I feel the brig could stand for a bit of emptying."

Gillette bit down the wet, hacking cough, as he covered his mouth with a soiled sleeve. It was a wheezing, hissing breath of pain as he swallowed it down and grimaced. He had been feverish for a while, now, and his breath felt as if it were lodged in water. The grim conditions were finally killing him, as they were the rest of them. The show of defiance had ended into sullen, accepting silence of death. The men huddled together, separate, sprawled or dying, without argument, or even discussion. Time had broken what Beckett never could: hope.

They were still flung food, and sordid water enough to live. It was just that living had become an inpossible torture. Gillette's arm throbbed, the bone itself seeming to cry for deliverance. He grimaced and shifted in the few feet of space where he had landed after his collapse. Groves had caught him before he had landed on the wounded arm, and gently slid him upright. Gillette didn't remember much else but Groves tearing a bit of his own remaining uniform to dab at his forehead, and whisper hoarse encouragement.

"We will get through this, sir. We _have to!"_

Gillette gave him a contorted smile, forced and broken. "What is there waiting for us, Groves? What possible chance do we have of being rescued from this rotting brig?"

Groves paused, agonized, and not knowing how to answer. "Sir, we've lived through too much to simply be content with dying on the ship of our enemy."

There was only the wince and the hacking cough as Gillette slowly heaved out, "It may not be our choice to make, Groves."

He regretted it when he saw Groves's eyes widen as he shook his head. Gillette closed his eyes, and forced a comforting smile, as he gently tapped Groves rigid shoulder in encouragement.

"You are right, Groves. Thank you for reminding me of that."

Groves gave him an uncertain glance, but only nodded. "I'm sure that we will escape, sir." Gillette shook his head remorsefully when he heard the thread of doubt in the words.

Their conversation ended abruptly when the door above them was suddenly flung open. Gillette grimace, but forced himself upright, with help of the kindly steadying hands that kept him on his feet.

Grimly, he gripped the bars for support and sharply gestured with a jerk of his chin for the rest of them to stand behind them. Groves opened his mouth to object, but Gillette silenced him with a curt, "If there needs to be a target for their ire, Groves, far better it be somebody who is wounded and expendable than a young man with a full life ahead of him. Now, kindly obey my order, and get behind me!"

Gillette resolutely waited as he heard the unfamiliar cackling and the odd stench of wet rot wafting down the stairs. Crinkling his noise at the stench, he and Groves exchanged worried glances. Whoever was coming was neither Beckett, nor Mercer. There was the loud sound of raucous laughter, merry and cruel, the strange sight of water trickling down the stairs, first a few drops, and the a small deluge, pooling quietly at the cell bars. He heard the disbelieving gulp from Groves as the mutilated shadows glided into the wan light of the sun. There was the clamor of several boots stamping down the rickety stairwell, and the cry of alarm as Groves suddenly whispered, "Sir? What in the world are these monsters?"

Gillette's eyebrows climbed higher and higher, though he did a masterful job of concealing his horror at the emerging sights and smells.

Jones's crew emerged from the poor light available, the sea slime glimmering like skin over their mottled appendages. The teeth were bared in glee, the shadows mercifully concealing the most disfigured of their ranks. Indeed, most of these..things looked as if the devil himself had gathered the most twisted leviathans of the deeps and cobbled them together with random malice. They were neither men, nor sea monsters, but a sickening hybrid of both.

Gillette understandably paled. There was no navy protocol for the likes of this.


	50. Wounds in her Wake

Jack had left the words and the idle threat lingering in his wake. He forced a gleeful smile towards the now bewildered Norrington, tipped his hat in mocking salute, and then left the Navy man to ponder how long of an existence he had left. It was a wearying bit of business, deciding another man's fate, Jack decided as he abruptly swept up the rickety steps to the deck. He found the cabin with Norrington in it to be confining, and enclosing. He needed a breath, the comforting sight of the endless waves that could never be tamed, or halted by the vapid wish of Beckett's ilk. Jack involuntarily snarled at the thought of Beckett. Even the name felt like something rancid in his gut.

Night had fallen over the ocean, the stars were soaring in the bloated abyss of sky and there was a cooling wind kindly propelling the Pearl onward. She arched upward, and gently rocked downward as Jack glided over to her prow and lay a loving hand on her rails.

"It's good to see you, too, darling." The Pearl groaned in answer and Jack smiled.

"It's not fittin' for a pirate to be addressing 'is ship like it's a lass he wants to bed, Jack. "

Jack flinched when he heard Annamaria's curt words from somewhere behind. Huffing, he twirled to meet her, confusion shifting from being startled to a coy, glittering grin.

"Now, there's no need to be jealous, love. There's plenty of Jack to satisfy ye."

Jack saw only the white flare of pain, and heard the resounding crack of Annamaria's slap as her palm slammed into his cheek bone. He yelped, winced, and cupped a hand over his now burning skin. Annamaria was all narrowed eyed snarl, and indignity, as she stood nearly flush to him with one hand on her hip. Her other hand was caressing the handle of her knife hilt, very slowly as she ground out:

"And there won't be any of Jack to satisfy the wenches ye throw yore coins at if I make ye a eunuch."

Jack flung placating hands in the air and wisely backpedaled. Annamaria had never been known for her kind temper, or charitable restraint. Indeed, her lightening quick bouts of rage, and her curt, distant nature made her difficult to gage, and impossible to predict. Jack found it admirable, and infuriating.

Annamaria scowled as Jack finally sighed, and doffed his hat into a grand bow. "Anna, darling, please accept my most humble and contrite apologies and request that ye leave me intact. I truly never meant to offend your feminine sensibilities, and implore you to remember the sorrow and disappointment you would cause to the ladies if you were to be so cruel as to…disarm me, as it were."

Annamaria's scowl deepened at that, troubled, as she only shook her head at some unreadable thought and turned away.

"I'm takin' the night watch, Jack. There's no need for ye to trouble yourself with it tonight." The curt dismissal was more alarming than the snarled threat. Jack frowned, puzzled as he carefully glided closer to her.

"It seems that something's troubling you, love." Jack said quietly, as he halted beside her.

Annamaria slid away from him, distancing herself as she gave him a narrow eyed glare of warning.

"Tis nothing vexing me, Jack. Leave it be."

Jack's brow furrowed at the dismissal, as he crossed his arms, and leaned back against the rigging. The casual gesture only deepened Annamaria's scowl as she huffed.

"My knowledge of the female creature tells me that the more a woman claims not to be vexed, the more vexed she truly is. Now, love, what's troubling you?"

She lowered her head, the snarl at her lips already flung as she heaved herself away from him, and stormed off. She paused to hurl over her shoulder,"What vexes me is my own, ye daft fool! Do I have to shoot ye to get some peace from ye?" It was the shrill cry of a trapped animal, as Annamaria clawed her hair away from her head, wove it into an agitated plate, and fled.

Jack stood there with his mouth open, the unexpected outburst as loud as gunfire. Somewhere behind them, he heard the troubled shuffling of Gibbs who had come to see what was causing the ruckus.

Gibbs stared in shock to see Annamaria's wilted posture, her whole frame quivering, and Jack's helpless hands flung between them, as if uncertain to flee, or embrace. There was the bone-deep heave, and the soft, unwilling choke of a sob, as Annamaria finally bit out the words.

"Leave me be, damn ye, Jack…..just leave me be…."

And she broke off into a lurching bolt. Gibbs wisely pivoted to avoid Annamaria colliding into him, but Jack snarled as he suddenly engulfed her in an embrace, and twirled her away from her escape.

She tensed against him, fingers clawing at the imprisoning grip, before she exploded. She became a whirlwind of blows and threats, as she thrashed against him, and tried to get free.

Jack finally bellowed her name, "Anna! Stop!"

She quivered in his grip, her heart thundering, her legs threatening to buckle. Her eyes emerged from the trap of their arms, her hair fell down around them, and she hissed out, the words guttural with tears and quietly restrained rage.

"Leave me be."

Jack cringed inwardly at the dark sheen of animalistic fear in her eyes, as she twisted against him. He was overcome with horror at what memories he may have invoked. Stricken, he abruptly released her, but then lay hands on her shoulders to steady her. She shrugged them away as if they were unclean, giving him another threatening glare as she lurched out of his reach.

"If ye ever lay another hand on me, Jack, I'll gut ye." The warning was flung out as she lurched backwards, gave him a miserable shake of her head, and almost ran. Gibbs watched in disbelief as Jack dubiously watched her exit.

"Cap'n?" Gibbs's inquiry was met with Jack's arched eyebrow, and primly dismissing doft of his hat.

Shrugging, Jack only answered, "Apparently, Mr. Gibbs, my understanding of the female creature may be woefully flawed on occasion."

Gibbs chuckled. "Or maybe ye finally learned, Cap'n, that if a woman's vexed, it's best to leave her be."

Jack scowled, but did not answer. Gibbs only shook his head when he saw Jack warily follow Annamaria's stomping. She came to a halt at the deck's edge, peered down at the churning water, and wondered if flinging herself to the depths would ever be enough to end the torture of not knowing the fate of her daughter. Isobel was young, innocent, and so very undeserving of her origins. And now, she lay somewhere in the flotsam of Beckett's hellish wake, one child among the heap of discarded ones. The tears blurred the darkness as Annamaria swallowed the thought that the child may not even live. She had borne many wounds in her short life, from knife, pistol shot, circumstance, and violation. But nothing compared to the abyss deep despair and guilt she had over her little one's fate. A mother's heart could be broken in ways that a pirate's never could.

She did not turn when she heard Jack's almost timid boot heels behind her, but she stiffened, hastily scrubbed her face and only hissed out, "I thought I bloody told you to leave me be, Jack."

He halted cautiously beside her, joining her slouch over the rigging, and careful to avert his eyes.

"Correct, love. You did request that."

She jerked her head upward, feeling vaguely trapped again, as she roared at him, "_Then why can't ye?_

Jack swallowed at that, uncertain if she would storm off in another alien bout of tears or gut him. She did neither as she only seethed, waiting for an answer, her entire frame rigid for the impending fight.

Rather than a witty remark, Jack faltered for a miserable moment, and then worked his mouth into the more familiar smirk.

"Clearly, darling, there's something vexing you that you wish not to be vexed further with inquiries about what may be vexing you. So, I won't be troubling you, or endangering myself with any more questions about what's vexing ye."

Annamaria just stared up at him, her eyes searing with naked, wretched anguish. "Why *are* ye here, Jack?"

Jack sighed, and his shoulders quirked into a shrug. "Honestly, darling, I believe I could be here for a number of reasons. When I pick a plausible one, I shall inform you."

Annamaria slumped over the rigging, as if the world had suddenly fallen on her shoulders. She lowered her head, as if in waiting for the executioner's ax, as she only whispered, "Do what ye will, Jack. I know ye will anyway."

Jack raised a wry eyebrow. "So will you, love."


	51. Here, There Be Monsters

Gillette stood, quivering, his brow burning with fever, his breath wet and choked from the sea-lung. He raised his chin resolutely, dredging up every bit of his considerable naval dignity, and forced himself between his fellow soldiers and their new captors.

Rigidly, he relinquished his white-knuckled grip on the cage bars, and swallowed back the burning, hacking wet that came whenever he tried to speak. He shut his eyes, drew a long, scraping breath, and damned the wheeze that burbled through his clenched teeth. Narrowing his eyes, and peering down his nose, he spoke with considerable dignity under the horrific circumstances.

"May I ask why Lord Beckett has suddenly permitted us visitors?" It was a disdainful inquiry, dripping with scorn, and rivaling Beckett's tone.

The answer was apparent, and sneered, by the clatter of their blades against the cage bars, by the panicked feet of the helpless prisoners as they huddled together to avoid getting stabbed. Groves shuddered and moaned as one of their knives flickered out and swiped his sleeve open in one small, red line. Cupping his injury, and grimacing at the blood, he whirled between Gillette and the snickering thing that had cut him. There was the bellow of animalistic rage as Groves slammed his fury and his good fist like a cannon ball into the monster's head.

Gillette hissed out the order, "Behind me, Groves, behind me, _now!"_

Groves rigidly pivoted, seething and anguished as Gillette only met his rage with a silent plea. Groves pursed his lips, gave Jones' crew a murderous glance, and finally bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"As you command, sir." He whispered softly, as he took his place beside Gillette.

"Groves, you are far too valuable to throw your life away on something so foolish…and yet so very brave. Do not subject me to the horror of seeing yet another officer dying here, Groves. Do _not."_

Groves flinched at the wan, brave smile as Gillette turned back to the seething, dripping horde before him. "You have still not answered my question, as to why you are here." Gillette kept his tone crisp, and sharp. "Or are you now animals, unable to speak like men?"

There was the blinding glance of something hard striking his temple, the dull thud of pain flaring, the icy ache and the warm wet trickling into his eyes. Gillette cupped a hand dumbly to the newly inflicted wound, and brought forth a palm soaked red. The sick cackle burbled up from the hunched thing that resembled an eel as it slid a tongue over the glint of the weapon. Gillette's eyes hardened as he finally rose from his curled, hunched position. Eyeing his blood-soaked hand in disgust, he swallowed hard.

"What is your business with us?"

The answer came forth in a bevy of snarls, scrapes of blades, claws, appendages, and murderous threats. Gillette's eyes bulged in the shattering realization that he and his men might very well be slaughtered in the next few minutes. Groves lay a hand over his good shoulder, and whispered, somewhere from behind, "You tried, sir. We all did. I favor death over living as their captive, anyway."

Gillette only raised his head, for the ending, in whatever form it took. "You are all honorable men, worthy of a far better death than this. I am very sorry. Forgive me."

There was only the shrill whine of sound, the torpor, the light sliding into shadow over the cage bars as the horde drew closer. The men instinctively lurched together, their flesh creating a bit of warmth and familiar peace in this last bit of existence.

"Cap's orders weren't to kill 'em!"

Bootstrap's words reverberated through the stifling air, rippling through the moment like an earthquake. Everything halted, from the scrape of weapons being unsheived, to Gillette's very breath. Even the echo of Bootstrap's bellow seemed to swell over the horror.. Bootstrap's eyes flickered over to the trembling, bleeding Gillette, with something sorrowful and human in his next words.

"None of em's close to passin' on. They can't join us." Bootstrap hitched his shoulders as he eyed them all. "Capn's orders."

That edict was met with grumbling, over bloodlust unsated, conflicting with the irrevocable will of Jones. Bootstrap stared them all down, as a few of them snarled away from the cage and began their grumbling lurch up the battered stairwell. One by one, they trickled away, after seeing that there was nothing else for them to do but fling a few knives at prisoners and risk both the wrath of Beckett, and their ever unpredictable captain. Bootstrap turned to Gillette, who kept gaping at the departure, and the scarred, wilted thing before him.

"Not all of us have turned completely to beasts." The soft voice held the lilt of the sea itself as Gillette saw the withered, white face emerge from the shadows. Bootstrap eyed the navy man with some unreadable expression, as the starfish on his face lurched and heaved in the slime. Gillette recoiled in horror. The pirate regarded him with a strange sadness for a long moment before he turned away, and was gone.

Jones felt the Kraken's presence like his own skin. He could sense her hovering, below the surface, each tentacle unfurled and slowly coiling together, like a noose sliding downward. The Antigone's deck vibrated when she nudged its side with a glancing blow. Beckett scowled in puzzlement as his little china tea cup clinked against its ornate saucer.

His eyebrows rose, and fell as his eyes narrowed and slid up to Jones. With a sigh of patience, he lay the teaspoon carefully against the saucer, and finally spoke. He kept his words curt, genteel, a blade of steel sheeved in ornate velvet.

"While I find it regrettable that your pet was injured, I feel the nature of the beast's injury to be of far more importance. I find it more than a bit odd that the Kraken has sustained a single pistol shot to its eye, when you yourself have admitted that there were no ships in these waters. Captain Jones, there are only two equally unpleasant conclusions that I can draw from these factors. Either there is an unknown, and potentially dangerous enemy in these waters of considerable skill and marksmanship, or you are mad."

Jones's entire frame went rigid and tremoring, as water spewed out of one of his breathing holes. There was only the hideous scrape of inhuman laughter, rising bright and cutting the very air as Jones rocked with the mirthless cackle. Those pale eyes glittered with some fathomless emotions as he rose, and towered over Beckett.

"I'm not a dog that ye can call to heel when it suits yore fancy. Nor is _she_."

Fear flickered minutely through his face, like ripples through water before he could restore that bored serenity again. "And just who is this mysterious "she" you are talking about, Captain Jones?"

There was only that twisted smirk of knowing. Beckett sighed, giving his a scathing glance, the words to summon Mercer unspoken. There was no time. The Antigone groaned, a low, long roar from her very depths as she was suddenly, and violently tilted. Beckett felt the alien shift of the deck beneath his feet give way, and he toppled into an inelegant sprawl over the wood. Scowling in disbelief at the world's odd angle, he saw the slithering white of one of the tenticles silently gliding skyward over the porthole, swallowing the water and sky itself.

Jones gave him a wicked smirk, as he scooped Beckett up, savoring the quiver of that sweating throat heaving against his crushing claw. Beckett twisted instinctively, shuddered as the claw crushed his windpipe and those pale eyes narrowed.

"Do ye fear death?"


	52. The Silence of the Deep

"Do ye fear death?"

The question lingered between them, mockingly. His throat flashed sweat against the claw. Jones hoisted him off the ground, and left him dangling, even as the cruel claw severed the last of his air. Strangulation. Boot heels spasmed in imitation of the hempen jig, kicking air where there should have been the elegant mahogany beneath them. All Beckett could summon was the animalistic squeal, torn from a throat that had no more invocation to give. The veneer had been shattered, the polished commanding voice that made men fear was now reduced to a nearly pleading grunt, and then, a last breath. The pale eyes rose like a condemning moon, the sound of the torpor roared like a beast coming to consume him, he could hear his heart and blood pounding in his ears like a tidal wave, and then, the eyes rolled back, slack and white into the skull, as Beckett's last moments were suddenly, brutally interrupted.

Fragmented awareness warred with oblivion. Jones had tossed him away like trash, and left Beckett in a disheveled heap. He clenched his teeth against the overwhelming instinct to exhale loudly. Breath slowly trickled down his burning throat. Eyes cracking open to blurred slits, Beckett saw Mercer's shadow sliding over the floor, the flick of silver like a fallen star in one hand, the other holding something glistening with slime.

The bloodied thing in Mercer's hand suddenly lurched, and the dull thud rolled through the cabin like thunder. Beckett felt a reluctant admiration for loyal servant had been shrewd enough to procure the heart of Davy Jones and was now keeping him at bay with the silent threat of the blade over the organ.

Mercer was crouched like a panther, eyes narrowed, shadows sliding over his scars, the blade flickering in the dark, the organ gleaming with sea filth. He gave Beckett a troubled glance, as Beckett slowly rose from his undignified sprawl on the floor. Raising his chin to feel the ache of the bruises against his neck, he brushed the lace of his sleeve with familiar distain, as if this was all it took to dilute the evidence that Jones had almost killed him.

His eyes slid to Mercer's, glittering with a rare regard, as he tipped his head in acknowledgement. Mercer bowed his head, and then glanced at Jones.

Davy Jones stood there, his tentacles flailing in helpless rage, as if he wished to tear the very sky down. Mercer only smirked, and lowered the blade, fingers tightening into the gore. Beckett savored the shudder and the tortured moan of Jones, as he clutched his chest and nearly fell to his knees.

Primly, Beckett began the elegant glide over to Jones, who was seething in anguished impotence, and writhing in agony again as Mercer ghosted the blade over the organ.

"Yore….a cruel man, Beckett." Jones hissed out as he struggled to rise from his slumped crouch on the floor. Mercer gave his master a questioning glance, as Beckett gave him a sated nod.

Rising like a condemning god from the passing shadows, he strode over to Jones, lay one disdainful bootheel on a flailing tentacle, and whispered, "But I am a _man_, Captain Jones. A claim you may no longer have due to your foolish bid for power."

Jones flinched as the bootheel was withdrawn, and the words coiled around them all in hideous warning. Beckett curled his lip, as he gave Mercer a sharp nod.

"Will you be wise enough to call your pet to heel, Captain Jones, or will I have to ask Mr. Mercer to eviscerate a piece of the heart for each moment you choose to delay my order?"

Jones's lipless mouth tightened into a considering scowl, and then curled into a triumphant smirk. "If ye kill me, who's going to call her off?"

A troubled line flickered briefly over Beckett's forehead. It was a searing, and stark revelation that Jones had not only developed a troubling amount of defiance, he now had a considerable threat to maintain it.

Wordlessly, he gave Mercer a slight, dismissing wave of his fingers, and Mercer glowered as he obeyed. Eying Jones with open loathing, he snarled as he flung the heart on the desk and relished the shudder from Jones as if he had been struck. Beckett slid Mercer a warning glance, to which Mercer bowed his head and muttered apologies, before gliding back into the position of attack dog behind Beckett.

A measured breath, held deliberately and finally exhaled in languid triumph. Beckett lay his palms on the table, and ignored the ache of the bruises at his throat.

"Captain Jones, it seems that we are currently at an impasse. Consider our unpleasant situation logically. You are aboard a fully armed vessel in the employ of the Crown. While your pet may succeed in damaging the Antigone, she will not sink this ship. And, even in the unlikely event that the beast did accomplish the impossible, there's no certainty that you would slay me. Whereas, I'm perfectly capable, and willing to end your irritating existence here, and _now."_

And with that, Beckett slid the blade into the flesh of the organ. Jones crumbled, with a howl of pain that was quickly choked out with a snarl of animalistic rage.

"She comes for ye, Beckett. _She comes_."

_Meanwhile, below deck..._

Gillette felt the shudder of the ship beneath his boots, a dull, reverberating thud, as if were struck by an anvil. The unnatural convulsion was eerie, and then, the ship was still, as if in terrible waiting. Groves exchanged dubious glances with him as he quietly ventured, "Did you feel that, sir?"

Gillette's eyes flickered downward uneasily. "I did , indeed. I have no idea what would cause such a thing, though. We're too far out to strike a reef, or run aground. "

There was the groaning ache of protesting wood straining, dredged up from the Antigone's bowels, and the ship shivered like an earthquake. Gillette heard the sharp intake of breath of Groves, and then the whimper of fear from one of the men behind him. Gillette saw Grove's white, rigid face, and the trembling finger jutting towards the small porthole that let in the vapid sunlight. Shadows slid over the floor, undulated, as Gillette saw the dripping, squelching suckers of the tentacle lurching up the side of the ship.

"The Kraken." Gillette supplied quietly, as he continued his level stare at the porthole.

The small silver of light flickered out, and they were alone in the silent dark. Groves swallowed hard, and whispered, trembling, "Orders, sir?"

Gillette narrowed his eyes, and answered after a long moment, "If that monstrosity means to break apart the ship, then we have few options open to us, gentlemen, but how to die bravely."


	53. Hell, part 1

"She comes for ye, Beckett. She comes for _ye!"_

Beckett had long grown weary and bored with the threats of vengeance beyond death, of prisoner swearing with their dying breath to haunt him, to punish him. He had long shook off the fear of damnation, with his morality, humanity, or anything that conflicted with his hunger for power. He was unshackled from suspicion, and normally unmoved by any promise of retribution.

Until now. The threat lingered in the air, curled in Beckett's gut, lay rancid and waiting as the horror of the truth finally cut through the disbelief that had enshrouded his normally quick mind.

Jones's eyes had slid to meet his, the lidless mouth twisted into a knowing smirk. Jones looked fondly at the slimed arm of the Kraken still rising up the side of the ship. Slowly, with a grunt fumed out of one of his air holes, Jones rose to his feet, and lurched forward.

"She comes for ye, Beckett, and I'll naught call her off. Ye stab my heart, and she'll ravage yore ship all the more for it. I'm not some mongrel whelp to be summoned as ye please."

Mercer snarled at that, and was only halted from hacking the heart to pieces by Beckett's curt order. Shocked, Mercer's blade still dangled in his waiting fingers.

"Sir?"

The prim lips tightened into an unyielding white line. Narrowing his eyes, and raising his chin, Beckett only answered in a voice as taut as a frayed noose.

"Mr. Mercer, kindly return to attending to the business at hand. As you were." The cold order was quiet and wary as Mercer gave his master a troubled stare. Beckett slowly turned his head, and slightly tilted his chin upward, meaningfully. Mercer gave Jones a seething glare before he sidled out of the room like a kicked dog at the dismissal. Beckett coolly eyed Jones with a strange patience, before he finally spoke.

"Captain Jones, you will forgive Mr. Mercer's haste with his blade. I have not yet enlightened him about the terms of our accord. You will also forgive any discomfort or rash ideas of vengeance, as I expect the compensation you gain in crew to be more than sufficient when your pet sinks this ship. I trust that you are wise enough to ensure that Mr. Mercer and I are at a safe distance beforehand."

Jones was perversely amused. "You wish ta join me crew?"

Beckett allowed his benign placidity to slide into the dark scowl, as he elegantly closed the distance between them. His voice was a blade, concealed in velvet as he finally answered, "Captain Jones, it would be beneficial to you to note that while the threat of eviscerating your heart is an amusing tool to ensure your obedience, it is by no means the only option. "

The unspoken threat was left intentionally vague so that Jones could draw whichever conclusion was implied. Inwardly, Jones shivered. He was accustomed to welding cruelty and false promises with a sickening ease. He was accustomed to tormenting the dying and the drowning in their last moments on earth, relishing it as a healing balm that somehow eased the ache and loss where his heart once was. For a dubious moment, Jones looked at Beckett, and wondered who was truly the monster.

Coyly, Beckett graced him with a small, triumphant smile, as he sat back down, and took a small sip from the delicate saucer.

"Captain Jones, I know that my instructions were very clear. Unless there is some issue that is imperative in carrying out my orders, I believe you have a ship to sink."

_Meanwhile, below deck…_

The wood beneath them shuddered as the Kraken hurled a teasing arm at the Antigone's prow. The ship resounded from the blow like an echo that suddenly thundered into a massive, air-slicing crack. The ship was suddenly tilted upward, the floor slid away from their feet, and the world itself seemed to convulse with the Kraken's force. Gillette toppled helplessly into the heap of his sprawled group. Heaving, he rose, ignoring the flair of pain in his arm as he gripped the cage bars with his good hand to stay upright. Gillette watched in dismay at the deluge of water that swelled and rolled down the rickety stairwell. And he could barely choke back the scream when the corpse of a half-consumed sailor tumbled down the steps, floated with the tide that was now up to his hips, and bobbed against the cage.

Sickened, he turned away. The tremble in the ship's bottom was the only warning before the world suddenly rose and fell once more in the opposite direction. Gillette was slammed into the bars, but he wrapped his arms around them and clung to them as the ship continued to rise, swell, and fall. The deck above them went from being silent to wailing shrieks, frenzied footsteps, erratic thuds, and the roar of water and panic.

It was a tragic, tragic ending. Even as his fellow men stood, stoic, silent, and resolute in their mutual vow to both die as one, with no fear, Gillette could only stare at them with barely concealed tears. There was no whimpering of terror, no pleading, no mental collapses or bending knees. The only sound was the tense hiss of breath in the tortured waiting, the solemn recitations of prayers to God, the commending of their souls to heaven and their remains to the deep.

It was so bitterly ironic that the cage had made them brothers. Bonds had been forged from enduring the same hell together, they had faced the whip, the deprivation, the darkness, and now, their ending.

Groves glanced at Gillette, and gave him that sad, accepting smile as he hitched his shoulders. "Sir, it could be worse. We are going out as men, and we are not facing our ending alone."

They watched, in stunned horror at the lightning shaped crack that suddenly emerged from the swells. The wood groaned in protest, and then splintered as water began pouring through the fragmenting deck like blood from a wound. Gillette swallowed hard when they heard the loud roar that emerged like a shriek from the dying ship's very depths. Below them, they could hear her compartments splinter, and give way as the Kraken indifferently continued to rip the ship apart.

There was at last, the long groan of wood giving way to the end as the ship convulsed in its death throes. The Kraken had already flung the mast to the waves, leaving the remaining deck open for the kill. Her arms rose, gracefully, soaring skyward, as the survivors updeck stared in horror. She held her arms open in the embrace, let the sunlight fall through them like shafts of light refracted in a cell. And then, she hurled them back into the water.

Gillette heard the whimper of terror as the floor buckled into shards and separated. The cage scraped in weak protest across the floor for the last time before the floor was torn open like a jagged wound, and the Navy men plummeted with their cage.

There was nothing but the writhing panic of men drowning, the weight of the cage, the terror of water as it strangled them when they opened their mouths to scream. The cage, nothing but iron and empty space, tilted without the support of the floor, clanged against the fragments of wood, and was caught on a busted beam. Instinct gave Gillette enough strength to swim free, and cling to the large, flat piece of wood. Shivering, Gillette hauled himself upward onto the plank as far out of the water as he could .He heard the gasp of desperate air-hunger beside him as Groves coughed up water, and scrambled onto the plank. They had been hurled a sizable distance from the sea monster, but it was not enough. Groves grimly sighed and looked up at him. "Please brace yourself, sir. I'll try and paddle you to safety as far as I can before that beast follows us."

Together, they made the slow, shattering lurch away from the scene behind them. The Kraken paid them no heed as she continued to ravage the Antigone's fine white sails were now funeral shrouds as the proud ship was gutted like an animal. Tentacles plucked at rigging, at masts, at decks, at sailors, flung them high, slammed them down, dragged them to their death, and left them floating. It was impossible to see from the twisted rigging, the floating corpses and the wailing cries who had survived the chaos.

Gillette watched as the Kraken slid back into the depths, leaving nothing but the broken ship and the dead as proof that she had been there at all.


	54. Calypso

The screams had fallen silent, after growing more frail and faint against the darkness falling. When the night finally came, there was silence except for the endless ebb of breaking waves against the remnants of the Antigone. Gillette had grown hoarse from his pleading cries of any of his crew answering him. Incredibly, when all the flotsam had settled into bobbing over the tide, several of the sailors had answered back. The sliver of moon paled bright enough to show the outlines of the dark, jagged teethlike pieces of the ship, the coils of rope, and here and there, a bobbing corpse. Groves was shivering with the wet and exhaustion of attempting to paddle the small plank to where he had heard some of the voices of his fellow crew. Gillette clung to the wood with his good arm, and lay, splayed and wounded and hacking, his eyes fixed skyward, and unblinking. Groves had found a bit of rope, and tethered Gillette to the plank, so that he wouldn't simply roll off and drown. Gillette lay in torpor, his breath quivering and broken through his erratic heaving. He was trembling from the shock, and Groves, for the first time, truly feared for his life.

"Sir! Lieutenant Groves, you must stay alive, sir! We've been through too much to simply die out here. Stay with me, sir. We will get through this."

Gillette let out a long, burbling sigh as he hacked up another clog in his throat. Groves felt the trembling, cold hand latch onto his wrist, and the rasped reply. "I have no intention of dying out here, Groves."

Gillette saw his smile even through the wanning light. "Of course, sir. I knew you wouldn't simply give up."

Gillette shut his eyes for a moment, before he finally answered. "You are a fine soldier, Groves, and I am proud to serve beside you."

Groves smiled back. "Thank you , sir. That means a lot. However, we've more pressing matters at hand. What shall we do now?"

Gillette narrowed his eyes at the odd sound of breaking waves, and scowled, puzzled at the strange, rippling line that looked as if something was writhing beneath the surface. Groves followed Gillette's glare and swallowed hard.

"Is…..is it that beast _again,_ sir?" Gillette gave the waters a troubled look, before he bellowed out over the darkness, "Men, it looks as if the Kraken may be resurfacing, near me. If you can hear the sound of my voice, paddle away from it, _now_!

All around them, shrieks of dismay, the erratic sound of splashing, of futile attempts to claw water and live. Groves heaved himself downward, and kicked the plank as far away as he could. Gillette floundered in the water, but grit his teeth. Together, they had managed a sizable distance. By then, the ripple of waves had become one slithering line of parting water, splintering open as the huge, spectral ship climbed skyward.

Gillette swallowed hard as the moonlight swathed over the decaying wood, the stench of rot, the thing that the bowels of hell and the bottom of the ocean had suddenly vomited forth.

"_The Dutchman."_ The words were broken in despairing shock as Groves numbly eyed the ship, mouth falling open.

Gillette could only watch, transfixed, as the water slowly undulated, while the Dutchman sat serene, and still, in horrific waiting.

There was only silence over the water. The ship did not move, the crew did not appear, Jones didn't stride about the deck, dripping distain and cruelty. Fearfully, Gillette stared down at the endless water that most of his body lay curled in, and squelched the thought of the Kraken returning to kill the ones she had left behind. There was nothing to be done for it, if she returned. Gillette quietly laid a finger to his white, twisted mouth to Groves, who gave a silent, curt nod of agreement. They would be harder to find if there was no noise to reveal their location. Apparently, the battered survivors who were still treading water had the same notion, because they had stopped crying out. Gillette prayed it was because they were simply being wise enough to avoid becoming a target…..not that they had drowned.

_ABOARD THE DUTCHMAN-_

The scowl on his lidless mouth was hardly unnoticed. The crew was already wary of the whiplashes meted out according to Jones' moods. They were careful to avoid any offense they knew would set his erratic, cruel nature on punishing them even more. Mercifully, whatever was vexing him, was also distracting him from flogging. His scowl deepened as he turned his pale eyes to the fathomless depths. Even with his ability to see the deeps himself, the ocean left him perplexed, and awed with a shrill fear of her mercurial, ever changing moods.

_Calypso…._

Something akin to longing, and pain flickered over his wounded soul, and he felt Calypso's summoning throbbing through his veins, quiet as a serpent's hiss, tempting as Eden's first dawn. Gritting his teeth, he barked out the order for his men to keep the watch, and drag aboard any survivors.

Trembling, he strode down the mottled stairwell below deck, and slammed the dark door to his quarters.

_My love_…. Her song was the howl of the storm, and the caress of the wind. Her promise held the fire on the water from the newly risen sun, and the depths of all that he longed for. Shutting his eyes, he breathed her name, as she answered back, with a long, aching caress against his face.

_Spare them, my love. Spare the survivors of the Antigone. I've greater need for them._

Doubt flickered, wounded, grew into teeth that bore down on his rage as he opened his eyes, and hissed in answer to the silence. "I'll do no such thing. I lay claim to them as crew, and under my mast, they'll serve."

_And what is better punishment, my love, than to leave them to drown. I know their hearts. They will not serve you, you will not have claim on them._

He snarled out, indignantly, "They be mine, Calypso! "

A languid hiss, as her caress grew claws over his soul.

_You are mine, my love. Leave them be, and I promise vengeance. Vengeance against all of them who think they lay claim to us._

He grit his teeth, allowed the exhaled sigh out slowly. "Calypso….."

He felt her searing touch dance lightening quick over his soul, the bright flare of ecstatic pain.

_Thank you, my love._

Somewhere in the flicker of moonlight over the water, Gillette thought it was a fevered dream when he heard the wild cackling of a woman's laughter, burbling up mirthlessly over the dark. Groves thought it was only a passing shadow and a bit of madness when he saw the gloaming dark eyes rising from the waves, and the shape of a woman slithering back into the darkness.

The Dutchman lingered a few more moments, in silent vigil, before she, too, slid beneath the waves. She left nothing but the dead and the disbelieving floating in the wreckage on the water.


	55. A Woman, A Pirate, A Mother

_When Anamaria looked at the daughter she held in her arms, as she soothed her to sleep by the firelight, she felt a rare moment of peace. She ran an awed hand over the ebony fringe of curls-already like Ana's, and the skin, unmarred, and infinitely precious. Her daughter's skin was a lighter shade than her own, but the shadows hid the difference. And, when her daughter pursed her tiny mouth, and sighed against her, content, it no longer mattered. Isobel held the promise of beauty, with huge, obsidian eyes, and ironic to Annamaria, a quiet, solemn nature. Isobel would often stare up at her mother, with the strange intensity of a newborn, and rarely fussed, even when wet, or hungry. And now, that precious child was lost. _

The waves continued their undulating vigil under the hull of the Pearl, as Annamaria exhaled the deep scent of wind over water. Normally, the endless swells would soothe some of the agony, but tonight, she could only glare in hatred at the deeps that separated her from her child. Were she more of a high-borne lady, she would have wept. Were she a wench, she would have shrieked her pain to the empty sky. But, even more than being a mother, she was a pirate, so she kept her anguish rigidly clenched to her heart. She did not know if her daughter lived. She did not know where to find her, or even where to start. All she knew was that her arms, and her soul reverberated from the deep, searing ache that not even the ocean could satisfy now. For so long, she had longed for freedom from being caged on land, and she knew, without any hesitation, she would give up the sea's eternal etch on her soul, if it meant that she knew her child was safe.

"Isobel…." She whispered her daughter's name to the waiting silence, hoping somehow that the promise would be carried over the waves and the wind, towards a future kinder than this. When she heard the unmistakable glide of Jack's bootheels over the deck, she hastily smeared away the tears, and worked her face into the more comforting snarl.

Jack halted uneasily at seeing her going rigid with seething anger. The burn of tears was still ravaging her eyes, as she grit through her teeth, "Damn ye, Jack Sparrow, leave me be!"

From behind, she heard Jack's troubled sigh,and then the theatrical clearing of his throat. Jack swept to her side, and casually lounged against the rigging, pretending to engrossed in studying the ocean.

"You swore no oath of service, signed no articles, and gave me no promises, Anna. I'll not keep you here against your will. "

Her eyes slid to his, narrowed, and uncertain, as Jack hitched his shoulders without a smile. "Doubtless, there's been some sort of extenuating circumstances that merits you being so vexed…and now…"

Jack gave her a bitter smirk. "Love, my first sight of you was when you were nothing more than a little wisp of a lass, chained with the rest of those poor souls. And even then, I've never seen you looking so caged."

She scowled at the memory, her hand unknowingly straying to ghost over her wrists that still bore the scars of the manacles.

"I don't want my daughter knowin' any chains, Jack. When I find her, I'll be "

"Chaining yourself to land, love?" Jack queried softly, eyes darkening.

The question lingered between them, as Jack lounged against the rigging pole, and airily brushed imaginary dirt from his sleeve. Anamaria just scowled at him in finality.

"Pirates don't live to be old, Jack."

"Ana, pirate's in the blood, and you'll have to square with that one day."

Her mouth twisted into a tortured line, as she turned to the churning ocean with a longing so deep that it suddenly ached. The sea rose, as if in farewell, and Ana only rammed a frustrated fist to her chest, so that the ache could be a bit more physical, and distracting. Even the thought of leaving the ocean left her gutted.

"I'll naught be a pirate when I find her, Jack. The water's no place for a babe, ye know this." The resolve was crumbling in her voice. Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow and gave her a bitter smirk. "Oh, come now, darling, I was raised on the ocean, and look how well I turned out!"

She just shook her head, as she suddenly snatched Jack's wrist, ripped the sleeve away from the brand. The letter, though burned into his flesh physically, was far deeper than skin. Tapping the letter, she saw Jack flinch, as if it somehow wounded still.

"Ye be daft, Jack, if ye think that yore proof a pirate's life is naught but madness."

His eyes flickered, darkly. "And, yet, darling, you've chosen to become a _pirate._ From what I've garnered, you didn't choose to become a _mum._"

He heard her enraged hiss of breath, and wisely backed away, already raising his placating hands. He saw stars and heard the smack of her palm against his cheek. Pain like a whiplash, as he instinctively drew a palm over his burning face.

"Oye, Ana! Quit slapping me!" His face contorted, with the wince.

She rose, quivering, her face leeched of color and brittle with her thoughts. "It's my choice, Jack, and damn ye if ye think I'll be free while my child is not!"

Long moments of choked silence, as they stared at each other, Jack's palm still curled over his cheek, and Anna slowly dropping her arm, and retreating a few steps away. Jack shook his head, with a mirthless chuckle, and Anamaria narrowed her eyes.

"Mayhaps, darling, it might interest you to know, that while aboard Beckett's pretentious dingy, I very intelligently pilfered a map detailing the prospective trade routes. Useful thing to know-where your worst enemy is sailing."

Anamaria huffed, irritably, "It has naught to do with me, Jack Sparrow!"

"It might be of interest to you, love, to know that good ol' Becky was gracious enough to not only write down the names and ages of the wretches he sold, but, also their location. Apparently the East Indian Trade company keeps track of its profit that way. Mayhaps, you can find your whelp's location by viewing these sordid records?"

Anamaria stared at him, stunned, joy soaring and crashing even as Jack's wicked grin faltered in dismay at her reaction.

"Jack…." Her voice was soft and disbelieving.

"Contrary to all the evidence, love, I've a charitable impulse every now and then. But, be a darling, and keep it to yourself, aye? I don't want it getting out that I've gone soft.


	56. Alive

The silence, and the darkness were more hellish to endure than even being caged. Gillette grit his teeth against the anguished ache of his shoulder, and lurched upward the few inches his battered body would allow. A few inches, and his clenched knuckles against the rope were all that kept him from drowning. He flinched in surprise when Groves carefully grabbed the tattered edge of his waistcoat, and hoisted him out of the water. Gillette flopped up on elbows, and after a pained attempt, rolled himself over onto his back, his dull, widened eyes seeing nothing of the empty sky. He was pale, heaving like a beached fish, fingers and body twitching erratically under the rope.

"Sir?"

Gillette's eyes finally slid to Groves, vacant, and squinting in the swooned torpor.

"SIR!" Groves' shrill cry finally roused him enough to dredge up the resolve to answer.

"What is it, Mr. Groves?" The words were scraped out as a choked whisper.

Groves said nothing, but only raised a trembling finger to gesture over Gillette's sprawled body.

Gillette grit his teeth, and forced himself to raise his head. The moon only gave a few slivers of light for visibility, but the water was still. Gillette could see a dark form rising from the black, as the waters churned and weaved erratic trails over whatever was emerging. It wasn't the bone colored flesh of the Kraken, and the shadow wasn't in the shape of the Dutchman.

"Perhaps it is a piece of the Antigone, Mr. Groves. A ship that size would produce a massive amount of debris."

Groves glared uneasily at the empty waters, eyes widening. "Sir, there's no debris from the ship." The troubled realization burbled into fear as he twisted his neck to peer at the abyss of the sea. Gillette stared, numbly. The water had been littered with bobbing corpses, entangled with yards and yards of tackline, unfurled sails, jagged shards of wood that jutted like teeth under the waves. And now, there was nothing but the serene, placid surface, undisturbed except for the sudden flailing of Groves as he dragged himself further up the board.

He started quaking, and his face contorted with growing horror when he saw that there were no other survivors, when the ocean had been full of them only a few moments ago. They had all fallen silent to avoid becoming the Kraken's meal, or the damned crew of the Dutchman. Night had fallen fast, and in the chaos, of evading the drowning, there had been no light, or way to tell who had lived, or died. Before, the night had been filled with the shouts of the survivors as the ship went down, but in the frenzied paddling to avoid death, there had been so little time to do anything but survive.

Now, the stillness, the silence, the waiting for the unknown,and the only solace the shards of the moon was a bitter prison unto itself. Fear roiled in Grove's gut, every instinct screamed in warning as the thing in the water kept its graceful glide, the dark shadow slicing through the water.

Groves felt Gillette's arm against his shoulder, as he exhaled sharply. Eyes narrowing, Gillette painfully lurched the few inches of the board, and positioned himself in between Groves and the approaching shadow. His good hand was arched high and he held a large, splintered piece of wood like a dagger.

"Sir, you can't-"

Gillette turned his searing eyes to him. "Mr. Groves, I am giving you the order to paddle away from here, _now._"

Groves stared, jaw slack and disbelieving, as Gillette slid off the board, and awkwardly floundered in the waves. Gillette went rigid with fear when he felt flesh nudging his submerged ankle, entwine around his limb. He had no time to scream before he was savagely snatched under the water, and dragged through the disorientation of the obsidion abyss. The world was filled with the roar of water, as his lungs twisted and screamed like a dying animal for air. Instinctively, he blindly kicked out, stabbed downward towards his ankle, recoiled at the human hand on his limb. He opened his eyes, and was blinded by the depths. His last breath burbled out, as his whole body convulsed in panic. Abruptly, he felt something against his spine curl, and heave him upward. He was propelled out of the water like a cannonball, even rising over a foot over the waves, before he slammed back down. The breath stabbed, as he choked and vomited. He heard the shrill cry of his name as Groves pummelled the water. Squinting in torpor, Gillette saw his crew member bobbing and small in the gloaming dark. He had been towed at least 30 feet away from Groves.

"Sir! Are you alright?"

Gillette was clutching in vain at the water that kept slithering through his fingers, clawing for purchase. Groves could see nothing but the bright flare of water in erratic splashes, as Gillette suddenly plummetted from sight.

_Calypso playfully cupped the tide to her lips, and blew a vicious kiss to the deep. The water roiled in serpentine coils, undulating and tossing the drowning man to the surface again. The Navy man was not surrendering to death, but still flailing against the chokehold, even as his body spasmed from lack of breath. She had seen the deaththroes before in these mortals, found them amusing in most, but tragic in a few. Even as the water closed over his head, and she dragged him down to the solitude and the silence, he was still writhing against his ending._

_She heard his breath in one choked, burbling spew, as he exhaled instinctively, and was still. He was too exhausted to tred the water, and in so much agony over the loss of his crew, and the prospect of enduring more hell, that he slid dull eyes to the heavens, and surrendered._

_Calypso scowled at that. She was mercucial, sparing lives on rare occasion and severing them frequently. Her water held the tears of her actions, of empty shores, and fractured loss. Her depths held the graves of endless years, of proud ships driven by the noble and the cowardly, all drowning the same._

_It was oddly infuriating, to see this one simply accepting fate with one floundering prayer to the One that even she obeyed. _

_She smirked, wickedly, as she unfurled another current that lifted Gillette to the surface. Her smirk grew as the current coiled in obedience, and carried the slack body towards his flailing companion. She was in a playful mood as she conjured up the huge piece of driftwood, large enough to keep them afloat, and watched, amused, as the two men scrambled aboard. _

_She paused, allowing the shadows to fall away, as she rose out of the water, an obsidion shade over the dark water. Her eyes and teeth gleamed in perverse glee as the uninjured man stared at her in dawning terror. _

_Her bright cackle fragmented like brittle glass over the water, and filled the air. She unfurled an arm, and blew the kiss over the waves, sending the piece of wood and its two passengers adrift. _

_Mayhaps she would kill them later, but they would live as long as they amused her. _


	57. Breath

Breath, clawed against the wet of his lungs, slamming like a boulder back down the choking throat. Water, potent as lava seared as he hacked up the sepia colored muck, and ignored the burble over his clenched lips.

The water beneath him writhed; setting his flaccid limbs adrift, as he instinctively clawed for purchase, and gripped the splintered wood for dear, sweet, life. The sea turned inward, rolling him back to the depths and then back to the surface, where a glittering sky, sharp as a shard, and swelling with clouds watched. He felt Grove's knuckles against his own, as both men clung to the remaining plank of the boat. Gillette grunted with the effort to haul himself up high enough to breathe. He lay there, squinting, and unseeing, as his body shuddered with the gasping instinct, and all his wounds ached in protest.

"Sir?" A hand, cold and shaking as his own, slid over his good arm, griped him, and hoisted him a few precious inches. Gillette finally forced his eyes to roll to Groves, the lips to curl upward into some faltering reassurance. He was quaking too hard to speak, but he forced his head to roll into the nod. Groves stared, stricken as Gillette simply let go of the board, and slumped into the water in boneless surrender.

"SIR!" The shrill cry of fear reverberated as Groves, strengthened by panicked instinct and unflinching resolve, dove after him. Gillette had only been under for a few tortured moments, his body only bobbed a few feet below the surface. Groves snarled, and gripped the limp arm, hitched it over his shoulder, and clawed upward. Groves broke through the water with a rib-breaking gasp, and vomited up the water. Coughing, he slid Gillette back onto the board, high enough to keep his head from the wet. Gillette choked up the sea water weakly, the liquid dribbling past his clenched lips, as he shivered. There was the scrape of wheezing breath, and then, his corpse-cold hand lay heavily on Groves's own.

"Thank you."

A languid blink, and a tired smile. Groves shook his head, trembling from both the horror of what had just happened, and the flaccid hands that had yet to regain their grip on the board.

"Sir…you let go. You let go!"

The anguish and the accusation felt like a whiplash, as Gillette wheezed, but raised his ravaged face, the pale light finally returning to his eyes. He squinted, and his knuckles went white with the renewed attempt to grip the refuge of the board.

"It was a mistake that will never happen again, Groves. I give you my word."

The promise was spoken in a voice scraped raw from lack of water, through cracked and bloodied lips. Groves only nodded with a grim, forced smile. He did not voice the tortured thoughts that the promise was most likely futile, and wondered if he had been cruel in saving Gillette from a more merciful ending.

Both were too weary to think of anything beyond the sweet breath, the roll of the water, the hunger in their guts, the endless ocean between them and salvation.

An empty sky, to compliment Gillette's empty thoughts, as the memories blurred in erratic arcs through his throbbing skull. The undead in the moonlight, the glittering silver of his sword, the powered wig that itched and sweated, but felt like a crown as he became a man and pledged his life and his years to the protection of God, his country, and the Queen. His few years of lingering on land, the endless swell of ships and years, drifting through the endless water and sky. Blue, the color of his naval uniform, the color of his first love's eyes. Was it to be the color of his grave, as well?

"What do we do now, sir?"

There was only silence, and the roll of water to answer the question. Another shaking breath, more trembling, as Gillette finally heaved out,

"We survive this, . Any other planning is a bit futile until we accomplish the first goal."

"And what of the rest of the men, sir? Do you think they survived?"

Gillette stared at the water around them, teeth twisting into his lip, before his eyes slowly slid back to Groves.

"There's no telling how scattered we are, Mr. Groves. The ship broke apart, and there was a great deal of chaos in trying to flee the Kraken. We were caught in a current of some sort, that would explain how we've drifted so far, and have yet to come across any survivors, or even some bit of debris."

Groves grimaced, and Gillette left the troubled thought unspoken. By then, the sun was at the edge of the horizon, casting off scarlet and indigo rays across the sea as she sank. Gillette stared at the long, bloody of red that span the miles between him and land, and said nothing more. The third day of being adrift was now ending.

Groves squinted at the sun, and stiffened. Alarmed, Gillette followed his transfixed eyes, and stared in disbelief at the white sails that could barely be made out from the darkening in the west. The ship looked nothing more than a feather on the water, but from her jutting masts, and her proud, swelling sails, she looked to be a Navy ship. Both of them heard the sudden bellow of shock from the man in the crow's nest shouting that men had been spotted in the water. And, Gillette nearly wept when he saw the sails being tacked so the wind would carry her towards them all the faster.


	58. The Knife's Edge

The water writhed as if tortured. Even Anamaria's pensive breath sounded loud as thunder in the horrible silence, as she tensed, waiting. She heard Gibbs babbling to himself, as he hoisted the bottle for another swig, slowly walking the ship's nightwatch. She waited as he slowly stumbled by, his muttering and footsteps fading. She clawed open the small burlap pouch, her fingers touching the cold, vicious metal of the coin, and the worn parchment carrying the precious location of whom she hoped was her daughter.

Lord forgive her for her treachery, for she knew the crew wouldn't.

The memories frayed, and snapped, as the noose gave way and something in her gut quelled and died.

Agony seared, the breath hitched with a sob, as she clapped a hand over her mouth to quell the banshee shriek of loss and guilt.

Mayhaps it was that taunting lilt of Jack's that teased of knowing where her child was, and his smug satisfaction at seeing her desperation to save her child from the flotsom of the unknown.

Mayhaps it was the tormenting smirk he gave her as he folded up the documents, tucked them away, ignored her outstretched, pleading hand for them.

She didn't ask for more than for the location, the name, anything that could lead her to her precious Isobel.

She remembered precious little, other than the cold, slimed bottle she held in her hand. The thunder crack of bottle against skull as she clubbed Jack in the temple and watched in horror as he stared at her with wide eyes and wide mouth and then toppled like a felled tree.

She stood over him, torpored and quivering in disbelief. The bottle she had welded on her captain and friend slid from her slack fingers, fragmented to the floor in a dark cascade of blood and rum.

A hiss of breath, as she stared down at him, lay a shaking hand over his neck, felt him groan and heard the dull thud of his heart.

She hadn't killed him, thank God. Only wounded him into swooning, only breaking him while he was trusting and defenseless. She had shown him far less mercy than she had her most hated enemy.

The coin-the cursed coin, that had damned Barbossa, that Jack himself labeled a thing forged in hell-burned against her palm, winked like a golden eye in her trembling hands.

Thoughts warred in her head, a mother's love corrupted, as she pictured her own damning. She considered it a small price to pay for the salvation of her precious daughter. Lord above, forgive her for it.

The small pairing knife she kept at her belt danced like ice across her blood as she held the silvered thing to the light, and brought it down. Scarlet spilled where she carved out her wrist, and graced the coin.

The moonlight pooled, lingered on the deck of the Pearl, and Anamaria bit back the shriek as the flesh slid away and revealed the slender bones of her wrist.

Jack groaned at her feet, dully twitched. His small scrape of breath shattered the horrific hush, the waiting.

She hadn't shattered his skull, he had suffered blows far more severe and escaped with a smirk and maybe a tale for a swooning doxie.

Jack stirred, slowly clawed back to awareness, and then shifted himself upright, one palm to his aching, bleeding temple.

Bewildered, he blinked, eyes narrowing into obsidion.

"Love, you're sailing over the map's edge. There be the monsters, Ana."

His eyes were dark as the pits of hell itself, the warning lingering into anguish.

"Ana, there's some shores that were never meant to be sailed, and you're fast upon them."

Her tortured eyes were pleading as she shook her head, shaking and sickened. But her fingers curled over the bloodied palm, covered the coin, as she held it closer to her heart.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

Jack gave her a mirthless smirk of understanding.

"You've no idea."

"I'll naught be leavin' my child to her fate, Jack."

" 'Course not, love. You'll just be condemning her to yours."

Jack stared hard at her bones in the moonlight, the anguish as her flesh melted away to naked, rotting tendons. He watched as Ana gaped, disbelieving at the pale light that shimmered through the gaps that skin should have covered. And then, he shuddered when she gave him that curt shake of her head, as she rose to leave.

"Be ye wise, Jack, and don't stop me."

"Bloody hell, Ana. You're one of the damned and undead. My cutless is of little use against one who is no longer vulnerable to wounding...leastways not one from a blade."

She stood, in anguished resolve, as her voice, brittle and soft fractured into the whisper.

"Tis worth it, to keep my child safe."

Jack snorted bitterly, and flung his arms wide. "I bloody hope it's worth it!"

She wiped away some of her blood from the coin with her thumb, the gold winking through her bones.

"My mind's made, Jack. I'll naught be changin' it."

Anamaria was alarmed by both the lack of objection and the brilliant smirk Jack gave her.

"Love, you're doing me a favor by taking the bloody thing off of my hands. T'would be a bit...fantastical, to claim that the coin's now in the posession of an undead crew member who's been lost at sea, savy? Not even dear ol' Becky's quite inclined to believe that. And, believe me, darling. If ever I have a pressing need for it, I'll get it back."

Ana shivered inwardly, though her face was stoic and unreadable. Jack stared at her for a long moment, and then waved a hand over the dark water.

"As you are determined to pursue this path, and are now impervious to any persuasion, I shan't hinder you in your endeavor. Now, if you would kindly and wisely heed my advice...stay out of the bloody moonlight."

He winced with a scowl as he cupped a palm to his aching temple. And then, he gave her the parchment of the map, the routes all outlined in scarlet like sword wounds.

"If you do hope to recover your whelp, I do bloody hope you're savy to the routes. A girl that young would most likely be sent the Main to a port where there's wretches desolute and opulant enough to fund such vile trades, and then stay there. Those who posess coin enough, rarely trouble themselves to move their slaves from their merchandise."

He rolled his eyes at irritation at Anna's raised eyebrow.

"It means that your whelp's most likely serving as a house slave near the coast. The uppercrust there is mostly sea-faring folk, they seldom move slaves off the mainland unless there's need, or market. Savy?"

"I'll give it back to ye, Jack. Once I've my child back, I'll have naught a use for it."

The promise was only met with Jack's bitter, horribly knowing smile.

"Ye can't give it back to me, love...and you'll have to square with it, one way or another. I only hope that when your day of reckoning comes, it's a kinder one than Barbossa's wretched end."

He saw the curve of her cheek in the dark, as she tilted her head, shifting from light and flesh to shadows and bone.

"You're a good man, Jack. Even if you be daft."

He smirked, sadly. "Aye, and you're a good mother, even if you happen to be pirate."

She tilted her chin, gave him a curt nod. And, then, she was gone.

Her bootheels sounded hollow as she yanked up the collar of her tattered overcoat. The darkness felt like a heavy cloth, as she pulled down her hatbrim to conceal her skinless face. Norrington was probably still below deck, and Gibbs was faithfully clinging to his rum bottle and murmuring something about mermaids in a drunken stupor.

There were no witnesses as Anamaria cut the tethers of the small boat that bobbed aside the Pearl. She was swift and silent as she hastily shoved the boat into the water, tensed at the quiet smack, the splash.

She flung her knapsack into the boat, and leapt over the rigging, landing catlike and balancing herself. With the oar, she jabbed the side of the Pearl to shove away, and recoiled at the mocking creek that sounded like a chuckle from the dark ship. And then, she rowed away.

Unknown to her, Jack stood, swigging his rum in troubled contemplation, as he gave his brand a disgusted look. He hoisted the bottle high.

"Best of luck to ye, love. You're going to bloody need it."  



	59. Deliverance

In the later years, when Gillette and Groves had grown gray, and dignified in rank, stature, decorum, and military honors, they would credit their miraculous deliverance from the sea to the merciful hand of the Almighty. The two old friends, when together, would wearily exchange tired smiles of knowing, politely demure any comments on their bravery. They would listen with genteel tolerance to the tired tales of their heroism. Groves delighted in sharing a sea yarn or two about their time in the water. Gillette would inwardly cringe and retreat to the polite veneer of restraint, or excuse himself from the curious eyes and ears. Gillette recalled little, but the smeared haze of untended fever, fear, agony, empty days of equally indifferent water and sky.

Gillette had few intact memories of their actual rescue. He recalled the dark shape, resting like a cloud on the water, then later the dismayed shouts. Sails, blindingly white, as the ship took wing and wind as she plunged towards the two castaways.

The sound of human voices as they rose high and faint as the cry of the sea birds. Gillette could only manage an indifferent squint vaguely in the direction of the gliding shadow.

Groves had crawled up the sliver, nearly on his knees as he waved and bellowed. And when human voices answered back, it sounded no less than the heralds of heaven. Gillette could only stare, delirious, and awed into silence as the shadow of the ship engulfed them. There was the scrambling plop as the boat was lowered, more shouts and splashes as the anxious rescuers rowed over to the floating plank.

Gillette remembered seeing their horrified faces, the bright gilted brocade of Navy uniforms as they finally paddled their rescue vessel only a few feet away from the floating board.

Splashing, shouts,the air fracturing after so much stillness. Gillette remembered being lifted, his arm carefully cradled against his side.

Groves' reassurance, soft and soothing and worried as a mother's crooning, pierced his brain, as he felt himself hauled out of the dripping hell around him, and gently set on solid wood.

Groves scrambled up afterward, and was helped aboard by several waiting hands. He wobbled for a moment, nearly toppling back into the sea as he gave the plank a savage kick that made it bob away.

Shivering, Groves took his place beside the bewildered and silent Gillette.

Closing his eyes, and settling beside his sick, stricken leader, Groves only whispered, "We've done it, sir. We've survived."

Gillette roused a bit, cracked his hazed eyes open, as that wan smile crept over his lips.

"Indeed, we have, Mr. Groves."

And he said nothing more, but resumed his slump, not of exhaustion, but of sheer relief, as they were rowed back to the tall masted ship, with the billowing sails and sporting the King's banner.

Some weeks later, the cry from the crow's nest rang out that the white cliffs of Port Royal had been spotted, to thunderous cheers.  
Gillette and Groves exchanged weary smiles of understanding and said little to each other. The voyage home had been mercifully uneventful. Gillette replayed the almost languid process of piecing together all that had transpired, and considered the whole thing nothing less than the protection of the Almighty.

The Maranatha-the Navy behemoth that was now sailing them home, had been sent under Crown orders to secure the trading routes and investigate the mysterious sightings of a gigantic Kraken that had apparently ravaged the Antigone. Since the Antigone was a flagship, and the vessel carrying Cutler Beckett, it's disappearance was quite unsettling.

Groves and Gillette had to fight to maintain their stoic faces at the news of Beckett's demise.

The Maranatha's captain, was a rather blustering old man with mutton chops. Captain Bellweather recounted to Gillette and Groves that they had come upon empty water, flotsum of the busted Antigone for miles and nothing to suggest any reason for the mysterious sinking.

Groves had timidly enquired about survivors. Captain Bellweather only swept a hand over the deck. He then informed them that a merchant ship, a fast, fleet little boat called the Lenora's Grace, had plucked several soldiers who had apparently held rank in the Navy. He knew little more of them, other than they were being ferried back to Port Royal, and they had claimed to be under the command of James Norrington.

Bellweather was mournful as he recounted that it was said of Norrington that he had sacrificed his life for his crew. Norrington had been unaccounted for for several weeks, now, and was presumed dead, along with Cutler Beckett.  



	60. Departure

Anamaria gave the sky an annoyed glance, as she grunted and stabbed the sea with a thrust of the oars. The wan light of morning was finally trickling over the horizon, and the water had been oddly still. Ana was grateful to see the backside of the moonlight, at long last. She had never stared at her own flesh-or lack of-in such horror through that long and lonely night. Vaguely, she recalled raising her boned fingers to the sky and seeing glimpses of the stars through the gaps that flesh once filled. She shuddered when she stared through her own handbones and felt like she was gazing through the bars of a cell.

She stared at her own reflection in the water. Fragments of her black curls still crowned her exposed skull. Her jawbone was still fleshed with the dark skin, but the lips were splintered and decayed beyond use. Her teeth glittered into a macabre grin and her eyes-

Rather than fleshless hollows, her own obsidian eyes stared back. She could not blink back the tears, she had no eyelids.  
Sickened, she flinched away sharp enough to nearly capsize the boat. She whimpered, swallowed down the scream. And then, she grit her teeth, winced at the wind that slithered through her cheekless jaws, and started rowing.

The coin was still stashed in the pouch at her side, the gold glinting with promise. This was naught but a small thing, and she would be done once she had her daughter. Once again, Ana found herself shrugging off hell with ease as she slowly rowed onward.

Jack's last, sad smile burned in her memory when she had flung her meager supplies on the little dingy. The Pearl had groaned in warning, and then in farewell, as she untethered her boat. Leaving the Pearl was like being gutted. She had been haven, home,  
freedom, and peace.

Now, she had naught but a clapboard sliver of a boat, a map, and a prayer. It was precious, precious little. But, as she knew so bitterly,  
little was still far better than none. Ana looked over her shoulder. The Pearl lay miles and miles behind her, by now.  
By her own reckoning, and the direction of the fading stars, she could work out the sizable distance. She had paddled for hours,  
and still felt both sleepless and untouched by the need for rest. Mayhaps it was only mother's love and her own grit, or some strange touch from the curse. She did not know, or care.

Death had at one time been a certainty. As she stared at the dull gleam of her bones, she shook her head. Hours of rowing should have left her tired. She should have ravishing hunger, unbearable thirst, exhaustion, sleep.

Dawn lurched slowly, a thin sliver of gold over the abyss of night. It was a heartening sight after so much darkness. The sea was silent.  
Anamaria paddled onward, towards the gloaming shoreline that lay like a basking whale on the water. Anamaria paused, warily, and breathed Isobel's name with the reverence of a prayer. And with no backwards glance, she rowed onward.

_l

Jack was neither surprised, nor particularly concerned to see Norrington glower at him from the cell bars. Indeed, the former Commodore lifted one ankle out of the bilge water with a catlike flicker of distaste. Even covered in filth, and locked in a pirate's brig,  
the man still retained the prim and proper distaste of his surroundings. Norrington's scowl deepened when he heard Jack's perverse, merry chuckle. When the pirate languidly took a swig from the ever present bottle, Norrington only glared from his corner and went rigid as a trapped animal.

"Oye, come now, former Commodore. I've not ordered you flogged, branded, strung up. Compared to how you Naval types treat pirates, I would assume you'd be a bit more grateful."

Jack's cheery words were only met by Norrington's soft snarl. "You will excuse me if I am distrustful of your idea of mercy, Sparrow."

Jack chuckled without mirth, eyes narrowing as he set the bottle down. "That's far more charitable than what I think of yours, mate."

Norrington squinted, warily, as Jack only sneered, "When I was at your mercy, you tried to hang me. And before that, your men attempted to hasten my demise in the form of excessive beatings, flogging and a most despiciable lack of rum to add to my torment!"

Norrington spat, "I would never permit the beating of a prisoner, Sparrow. That is a despicable and dishonorable thing to do.  
And as for your hanging, that is the just penalty for engaging in piracy. Do not blame me for the natural consequences of your actions."

Jack just shook his head at that with a bitter chuckle. "And just what do you think the consequences should be for you trying to sink my Pearl,former Commodore? You fired the first shot on a ship that was fleeing you. Where is the bloody honor in that?"

Norrington only sighed, bitterly. "And I have paid for that mistake, Sparrow. I have paid dearly for it."

Jack's eyes slid to his, obsidion and gleaming with uncanny awareness. "Forgive me for interrupting your well-deserved self-loathing, mate, but I've paid for your mistakes far more than you."

Norrington's jaw went slack. "How do you mean?"

Jack only sighed tolerently, as he branished his rings against his vest. "Oh, Former Commodore, let me count the ways. Recall how I pulled your beloved out of the water while all the King's men were standing around and gawking. If memory serves me, you clapped me in irons and ordered me hung. There's one. If left unchecked, Barbossa's treacherous crew would have ravaged Port Royal completely. Were it not for yours truly, and his fortitude in dealing with a certain bit of nastiness concerning a curse and a coin,  
those louts would still be pillaging, plundering, and then some. And, once again, in exchange for my help, I found myself clapped in irons, and ordered to be hung. You tried to sink my Pearl more than once, kill me on numerous occasions, and you can't even bloody manage to address me as Captain Jack Sparrow. "

Jack spoke the whole thing languidly, without venom, without accusation. He puncuated the little speech with a casual sip of rum,  
as he set the bottle down with far more care than it required, before he turned back to Norrington.

"In a fair accord of exchanging treachery for treachery, betrayal for betrayal...your balance on that scale is sorely lacking,mate. Mayhaps I should start righting that here and now."

Norrington drew a measured breath at the unspoken threat, and rose. "And shooting an unarmed prisoner is honorable?"

Jack frowned at that, and flung up a hand in irritation. "Now, that's a desolute and vile act, indeed, mate. Sounds a bit like something a pirate might be inclined to do, eh?"

Norrington only sighed. "What do you intend to do with me, Sparrow?"

Jack just hitched his shoulders. "Pirate, mate. I'm hardly under any obligation to divulge what my intentions are. But you might prolong your survival and your usefulness if you kindly answer a question that's bothered me for quite a bit now."

Jack's voice was a soft snarl. "What the bloody hell were you thinking striking an accord with Beckett?"  



	61. The Beginning of the End

"These accomodations are vile, Captain Jones."

Beckett indifferently watched the wreckage of the Antigone's Vengence-now only reduced to slivers of wood,  
rope, and bobbing corpses-slowly sink beneath the waves.

Beckett was unmoved by the pleading of the dying men who had been plucked from the ocean's wrath. Jones never saved any out of a sense of mercy, or compassion.  
No, the wretch who thought himself to be saved would find himself face to face with a monster offering a one hundred year reprieve from the inevidable. Jones only allowed a breath for an answer, with the only two outcomes-a slit throat or a newly damned soul for the Dutchman. On this particular night, Jones was incensed, both by the lack of survivors, and the humiliation of the Dutchman being used to ferry Beckett where he wished.

Indeed, Beckett had strode aboard the deck primly. Calmly, Beckett dictated the orders to Mercer to hold aloft the one thing that could bring Jones into submission.

With a grim nod, Mercer cupped the still pulsating heart in his clenched fist. Sneering, he squeezed the thing and relished the deep flinching wince that Jones could not conceal.

Beckett's silken purr was infuriating, as he stared at the Dutchman's deck with distaste. Mercer only bobbed his head in agreement as he warily watched the crew, hand curled over his pistol and the sneer bitter with promise. Suddenly, he hefted the sack holding Jone's heart high, and clubbed it against the rotting wood.

Jones shuddered as if stabbed,nearly falling and snarling in helpless rage. Mercer only met his eyes with a menacing dare and the pistol cocked towards the heart.

Jones only grunted in answer, eying Beckett with barely concealed hatred. There was only the seething, loathing silence, as Jones' tentacles twitched in aggitation.

Beckett graced them all with a knowing smirk. "Captain Jones, I think that you would be grateful for the new crew members that I graciously provided you with the sinking of the Antigone."

"There were naught left alive, save for one of the King's men. And he opted for death rather than the hundred years. Said he knew where his soul was goin, and thanked meh for sendin' em on his way."

Jones spat, irritably.

Beckett sniffed at that. "Hardly surprising. I, too, have come across those with questionable sensibilities, but deeply held religious convictions. It is strange, but I have observed they do not flinch at the threat of death."

And, he sipped his tea, primly. "However, if you do feel the pressing need for more crew members, why not simply sink another ship? Surely you can find one."

Beckett recoiled when Jones' lipless mouth curled into a wicked smirk. "Aye. We have."

Jack's voice was a soft snarl. "What the bloody hell were you thinking striking an accord with Beckett?"

Norrington's answer was both regal, and chilling. "I would hardly consider what transpired between Beckett and I to be an accord,  
Sparrow. The only choice I had in the matter was to either board that miserable dingy at gunpoint, or watch Beckett shoot my crewmen, one by one. I know that such regard for others is a foreign concept to you, and I do not expect you to understand."

Something flickered in Jack's eyes, as he sat back to resume his irritating scrutiny. Norrington only returned his glower, as he stood rigid and waiting for the pirate to speak.

Jack smirked, gave his rum a heft to his lips, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Former Commodore, what we have here amongst ourselves is a quagmire..nay, a gordian knot of issues that I've not had enough rum to even begin to untie. What were the terms of your non-consentual accord, then? That you'd simply sail away and bring ol' Jack in, willin' and quite happy to face the noose or worse? Long odds, aye?Mate, that's thick, even for you."

Norrington's glower slid to ice. "The impossibility of such a thing was never in question, Sparrow. I honestly believed that Beckett simply cast me out on the water with the intention of me facing a slow death from hunger or thirst."

Jack snorted at that. "And were that the case, mate, he never would have sent ye out with provision enough to last several weeks on said open water. And, Becky was gracious enough to provide you with a former crew member of the Pearl as a you not find the implications of that to be a bit...troubling?"

"Troubling implications are the least of my worries, Sparrow. I am a member of the British Royal Navy at the mercy of pirates. I have lost a vessel in the King's employ, and all the men I sailed with are either dead or imprisoned by Beckett. I tell you the truth when I say that any treachery I was a part of was completely out of my hands."

Jack narrowed his eyes as he took another sip of the bottle. "And the amusing irony in your tale of woe is that you wouldn't be here at all if you weren't so rash as to try and sink my Pearl. Funny ol' world, isn't it?"

Norrington only sighed, curtly. "If you are through with tormenting me, I would know what you intend to do with me."

Jack gave him a wicked smirk. "I would hardly consider being aboard the finest ship in the Main in the most pleasant company to be had- torment, former commodore. And the fact that I've neither ordered ye flayed nor flogged should give you a bit of credence when I tell you that I've the charitable notion to let you live."

Norrington did not seem to be amused, as he only rolled his eyes tiredly and resumed his slump in the brig. "Sparrow, it would be far more merciful if you shot me now."

Jack chuckled darkly at that. "Now, now, former commodore. As you no doubt have an incessant and irrefutable need to state the obvious, allow me. You're in the company and at the mercy of pirates who frankly find you bloody irritating. Believe me, I'm sorely tempted to shoot ye just to get you to shut it."

Jack paused, and answered Norrington's flinch with a glittering grin. "But, fret not, mate. I've a brilliant solution. I imagine that our dear friend, Governor Swann would be most happy to have your pleasant countenence back in Port Royal, and I'd be ecstatic to see the last of you myself. Indeed, why kill you when I can simply ransom you?'

The bright suggestion was met with Norrington's rigid snarl, heaved out through clenched teeth.

"No."

Jack's cheer was abruptly replaced with that calculating squint, and far too much awareness. Norrington actually trembled as he raised those pale, ravaged eyes, and snarled out, "I will not return to Port Royal, Sparrow. And if you intend to present me to Governor Swann, you shall be presenting him with my corpse."

Jack's lip curled into a rebuffed pout. "Mayhaps you don't quite understand the concept of being a hostage, but it means that you've not got a choice in the matter."

Norrington only grimaced, and seemed about to spit back a reply when the Pearl suddenly groaned in warning. Abruptly, she arched high and slammed down so hard that Jack nearly toppled.

Norrington had only avoided the fall by clawing at the brig's bars. Jack winced as he felt the dull thud of a blow thundering through the Pearl's core.

The ship quivered, as Norrington drew a shuddering breath. He was pale and wide-eyed as he stared at Jack and saw the dark eyes filled with fear.  



End file.
